♱

req rules ୨୧

no dead dove content (noncon, underage, inc/st, etc)

"taboo" subject matter is allowed though, such as large age gaps (min age of 19), unfaithfulness, etc

no involvement of any of their real life children nor spouses

x reader only, frank and gerard / fun ghoul and party poison only

can be nsfw or sfw or leave it up to me

i'm allowed to refuse if i feel inclined

please only put reqs on this post or in my inbox!

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gerard way ୨୧

series

our lady of sorrows | ao3

Gerard goes to a venue hosting local artists on a whim one day and sees you. Completely enamoured, he makes it his mission to see you again. You see him, too. And you wonder what made him stand so close to the stage. Frank sees the both of you. (or the formation of mcr but you're there, and you have a special bond with gerard. frank is your long time friend, and the reason you got into music)

chapters: ┊ 1 ┊ 2 ┊ 3 ┊ 4 ┊ 5 ┊ 6 ┊ 7 ┊ 8 ┊ 9 ┊ 10 ┊ 11

when you were here before, couldn't look you in the eye | ao3

Gerard's liked you for so long, he just wishes you liked him back, too. But he knows you don't and he respects your boundaries, so he tries to move on. Even after the success of the band, he still thinks about you. Even as he has thousands of screaming, adoring fans, Gerard thinks about you. Then, there's a show in Jersey. He gets drunk and stumbles to your old house. Turns out, you still live there.

chapters: ┊ 1 ┊ 2 ┊ 3 ┊finished ♡

one shots

unholy matrimony | ao3

After going through both a divorce and the breaking up of his band, Gerard wanted to find himself again. Relive the "good old days", perhaps. Take some time for himself. Though, he couldn't have ever predicted that he'd act as though he was twenty again— but meeting a particularly alluring fan changes that.

dirty needs done | ao3

Gerard is a major virgin and you're Mikey's college buddy who's incredibly interested in him. After weeks of constant teasing and flirting, you finally make an actual move on him at a party, making Gerard beg and whine for you in his own room on his own bed.

to the houses of the holy, smokin' on them cigarettes | ao3

You're having an impromptu interview with Gerard and it's supposed to be easy but he smokes during it and you can't help but be enthralled. He notices, so he invites you to smoke a joint with him after. Except, you haven't done this since college and so he helps you by offering to shotgun it into your mouth. Cue sloppy makeouts.

and if i had the guts... | ao3

It's the dawn of the zombies! Gerard is stumbling house to house, looking for some refuge, and as luck would have it, he comes across a great shelter—your house. You have both have been so thoroughly drained emotionally and wrecked physically that your bodies are aching for even the semblance of something nice. Turns out, "something nice" is packaged as a night of cathartic sex.

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frank iero ୨୧

series

our lady of sorrows | ao3

Gerard goes to a venue hosting local artists on a whim one day and sees you. Completely enamoured, he makes it his mission to see you again. You see him, too. And you wonder what made him stand so close to the stage. Frank sees the both of you. (or the formation of mcr but you're there, and you have a special bond with gerard. frank is your long time friend, and the reason you got into music)

chapters: ┊ 1 ┊ 2 ┊ 3 ┊ 4 ┊ 5 ┊ 6 ┊ 7 ┊ 8 ┊ 9 ┊ 10 ┊ 11

he's a little bit older (like, super old) | ao3

MCR needs a new drummer for their LLTBP tour. After sifting through many candidates, they land on you, a young woman with bright eyes and talent to boot. It's perfect for both parties; they get a great and passionate drummer, and you get a chance to kickstart your career in music alongside your favorite band. Frank intended to be a mentor to you considering how he's a recent divorcee and the fact that you really were just so young, but how can he resist when you flutter your lashes so sweetly at him?

chapters: ┊ 1 ┊ 2

one shots

catholic guilt | ao3

Frank decides to go on a completely harmless solo tour of a town the band was stopped at for one of their shows. Then, he stumbles across a local church and runs into the most charming girl he's ever seen.

give it to me, baby! | ao3

You and Frank like to have these competitions— they're friendly, meant for laughs and giggles and only a little bit for your egos. Or that's how it should have been, but you both were always way too into these sort of things and had a natural for getting under each other's skin. After a bad day, the last thing Frank wants is for you to rub your stupid victories in his face so he decides he needs to teach you a little lesson on what happens if you disrespect him a little too much.

If Gerard would ever convert to religion, then this would have been the moment he did.

He had no idea how long he'd been out. Walking, searching, scavenging—like a damn animal, all he did was hide and eat food scraps here and there while constantly teetering on the edge of dehydration from trying to conserve his water rations. Everyday was so hellish he wondered if there was a point to living at all.

At least here, he could have some form of nirvana.

Gerard sighed as he dropped the beat up camouflage backpack he'd been lugging around these past few weeks. It was all wear and tear—holes, teething marks, scratches, and bloodstains galore! There was nothing much in it, just those aforementioned rations and a few pieces of clothing he'd picked up along the way as well as a small first-aid kit.

Now that his one piece of luggage was off, though, Gerard had some freedom. Of course, he first made sure that the door was locked and the blinds plus curtains were all drawn before he could get to the fun part—exploring.

The house was in marvellous shape considering the circumstances.

Gerard first toured the living room. The fireplace was empty, only ashes and burnt char left behind. On the mantle stood a vase of fake stargazer lilies, a mundane sight, but one Gerard appreciated after having gore and guts being shoved into his eyes all this time. Oddly enough, there were a bunch of picture frames, but they were all empty and left there sitting atop a caked on layer of dust.

Someone must've purposefully took the photos. Does that mean the previous owners fled? 

That was a scary thought.

Now that Gerard thought about it, every other residence and building he'd stepped foot into had been ravaged or infested by hoards upon hoards of zombies. This, however? It was almostin suspiciously good shape.

No broken windows, no chewed up furniture, no stink of rotting corpses, no splatters of questionable liquids, and no people.

Had whoever took sanctuary here before him left? That just meant that there was a reason why they'd leave such a perfectly good place. 

Another option, of course, was that someone was living here. 

"Don't move."

Gerard felt something hard and thin press against his spine. A gun, of course.

His breath hitched, and he immediately threw his hands up, "I'm sorry!" He exclaimed loudly, then shushed himself. "I had no idea this was someone's home—I just, I just wanted some shelter, please don't—"

"You bit?"

Gerard turned, working quickly to lift up his sleeves, shirt, and pants to show you how un-infected he was. 

"If you need to see more, I can strip down."

Still keeping the gun—a semiautomatic rifle—to his chest, you pushed him until his back hit the fireplace. Gerard's heart was beating out of his chest, his mouth was dry, and he felt like he was going to piss himself. 

You stared into his eyes intently, searching for signs that he was infected. Then, you reached out and gave him a second check; doing your best to uncover as much skin as possible without actually strip searching him. Amidst your foraging, you confiscated his Swiss Army Knife.

Satisfied, you lowered the rifle and reached out a hand, introducing yourself by name rather curtly, "You know how it is. Can never be too careful and all."

"No, I get it," Gerard assured, shaking your hand with as much vigor as he could. "I would do the same in your shoes."

"Is it only you? No one else? Please, don't tell me you have a kid with you."

"None! Just me."

"Good. Got a weapon?"

"Just... that." Gerard pointed to the knife you took from him.

You raised your eyebrow, insinuating "that's it?" with a glance alone. Gerard felt ashamed.

"We were never a 'guns' household... that was the best thing I could grab."

"Neither was mine, but I still got this bad boy. None of the corpses you stumbled upon had a gun you could nab? Not even a pistol? A handgun?"

Gerard shook his head. Truthfully, there were some he spotted across his ventures, but they were always getting mobbed by zombies and he simply didn't have the guts to go in.

The topic was dropped and you went to go sit on the red leather couch, patting the spot next to you for Gerard. After all was said and done and you were no longer pointing a weapon of mass destruction directly at his heart—Gerard was caught off guard by how pretty you were. You were wearing these faded blue jeans that hugged your body so well, along with a dark grey tank top which showed off all your battle scars. 

You crossed your arms, "What's your name?"

"Gerard. And I already know yours."

"Nice to meet you—I should've said that earlier," you nodded. "So, Gerard, what was your life like before this?"

"Before this...? I was just an art school student. I went to one in New York. How about you?"

"Princeton."

That earned a gasp, "Holy cow, so you're super smart, then?"

You snorted, "Sure, I was, but what good is it now? At least you can keep yourself entertained with drawings and whatnot. What am I supposed to do? Bore myself to death with equations?"

"Might not be the worst way to go." Gerard tried a smile.

"You're right," you shrugged, easing into the couch a bit. "To tell you the truth, I was about two seconds away from leaving this place. I was all aggro with you earlier, but being alone for so long has been driving me crazy. This isn't my house, I found it like how you found it. There were a lot of canned stuff leftover in the fridge—I emptied out the good stuff, though, so don't get excited."

"Honestly, I've been eating trash and granola bars for so long that even... canned pineapple from twelve years ago sounds appetizing."

"Then, you're just in luck."

You two shared a laugh over that. The sinking feeling that'd been following Gerard around like a bad omen just poofed into a cloud of smoke the second he got to talk and joke with an actual person. Being able to look at a pretty, alive face compared to a decomposing one certainly helped, too.

"What was your life like before this? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?"

"No, none of that," Gerard flushed, shaking his head. "I've only ever had one in high school. I've been on a few dates here and there, but... they never went anywhere. I've always wanted to get into a serious and committed relationship, though. One that ended in marriage and maybe even kids..."

Realizing how depressing this sounded and seeing the sudden grimace on your face, Gerard quickly back-pedalled, "And you? Have you... uh, had any boyfriends, girlfriends, et cetra?"

You smiled, though that could have easily been forced, "Yep. Many. I was a ton of fun in university."

"That's nice to hear."

Even when the world ended, there was still the awkward silence after the inevitable end of small talk. 

While he was desperately searching for a different topic, you suddenly asked, "You want a drink?" 

"I'd love one." Gerard spat out way too fast and way too enthusiastically.

The corners of your lips twisted into a smirk and you wordlessly got up, sauntering over to the kitchen where you briefly disappeared behind a large cabinet before emerging with a fancy bottle of wine. On closer inspection, Gerard's eyes widened at how expensive this particular brand looked.

This was a crime but it wasn't at the same time. 

You were holding two wine glasses and set them on the slightly dirtied coffee table. Placing one hand behind your back and straightening out your spine, you bowed and poured the smooth, burgundy liquid as a waiter from a snooty, upstate restaurant would. The only thing missing was a napkin hanging from your arm.

"Cheers," you said, clinking the glasses together then having a taste. "Damn."

"Damn" was an understatement. As someone who was used to solely drinking corner store booze when life was normal—this was something completely out of Gerard's realm of taste. Unlike cheap wine, this stuff had an earthy aroma with a thick, leathery fruit taste.

It was so easy to get lost in.

And that's exactly what happened.

The two of you were tipsy bastards before the sun even fully set. 

Splayed out on the couch, dopey grins plastered across both your faces, skin flushed. Not completely drunk, but in a state so dumb that if a zombie were to break in at this moment—you'd both be food.

Apparently, you were one of those people who got super giggly while your limbs moved around like they were made from jelly. 

Also, you were touchy.

The distance between your end of the couch and his had been closed a long time ago—you were practically sitting on his lap while you messily played with his hair. Gerard stayed perfectly still, one awry breath away from dying of heart failure.

Figures, only in a zombie apocalypse could he get a pretty girl to touch him like this.

"Gerard," you slurred his name right into his ear. "Can I tell you the truth?"

"Um, sure?"

With clunky movements, you laughed your way onto his lap and straddled his hips while wrapping your arms around his neck, "I've never had a real boyfriend, either."

"Really?" Gerard marvelled, the disbelief enough to suppress his boner for just a moment.

"Mhm," you nodded all exaggerated-like. "And y'wanna know more? I'ma virgin. Yep. I was just lyin' to sound cooler than I am. The most action I've got was being fingered by some guy when I was sixteen an' giving blowjobs here and there. To be even more honest, I was a loser in Princeton—all I did was study, study, study. I wanted to reinvent myself while in this mess but I couldn't keep lying... 'm sorry."

Your head lolled onto his shoulder and you started letting out these soft breaths. Almost tears, but not quite there yet.

"Hey, hey," Gerard tried to sound soothing. "What's there to be sorry about? I mean, anyone would feel the urge to make a sorta alter ego when they can and when they're no prior expectations."

You stopped making those noises. He was on the right track.

"And look, I think you're cool. We just met, but you looked super badass with those scars on your arms and that semiautomatic—you're like some kind of heroine from a video game! Like Lara Croft!"

"Who's that?"

"Um, never mind," he dismissed with a wave. Way to go, loser. "Anyway, point is—"

Gerard thought he had to give out a few more spiels before you were good again, but his words were harshly cut off by his cheeks being squished together then propelled forward. 

Your lips crashed against his. It was a clumsy, ravenous struggle; Gerard was shocked when it initially happened, but melted into it like this was what his lips were made for. The buzz he felt could've been a transition piece for confidence from how he grabbed your hips and cupped the back of your head to deepen the kiss—how he knew to do this despite being a class A virgin? Movies.

The kiss went on in avidity; you tugged at his jacket as you ground your pelvis into his, simulating all the motions of sex so well Gerard's boner nearly tore a hole through his pants. For two people who hadn't done this before, your clothes were off just like that.

Pulling apart, his eyes went straight for your bra and your beautiful breasts. Perverse of him to do so, yes, but society was collapsing and you kissing him so feverishly first surely gave him an excuse, right?

Gerard couldn't help himself. Especially not when you noticed his intense, degenerate ogling of your breasts and decided to push them all up in his face while whispering, "Like what you see?" seductively.

"Yes." Gerard sighed breathlessly, panting because his dick was so hard it started to hurt. 

"Go ahead, touch them."

He was always one to do as he was told.

Without a semblance of shame, Gerard fully buried his face in your breasts and revelled in their softness. Again, being influenced by the wine-induced confidence boost, Gerard pulled your bra right off to lap his tongue around one of your nipples.

As he did that, you got his pants fully off and leapt at the opportunity to touch his cock. Leaking an inordinate amount of pre cum, you gently shoved Gerard into the couch and slid off his lap to the ground. You were on your knees, and wasted no time in taking care of his desperate erection.

You started by kissing his tip, then sticking out your tongue to lick up and down the base whilst keeping direct eye contact the whole time. 

"You're so good at this." Gerard stammered, gripping the couch so hard he tore a few holes.

"One of my expertise are blowjobs." You winked, moving your hair out of the way to swallow his cock whole.

"My god."

Gerard was gasping for air—drowning, but in the best way possible. In this space, he couldn't exist, couldn't breathe without having an unreal amount of pleasure overwhelm him like a tidal wave. A virgin like him, experiencing something so good all at once, it was just too much. Way too much. So much it was overwhelming. For god's sake, he felt like he couldn't breathe.

But when he peered down at your bobbing head, the slight hollowing of your cheeks, and the lewd slobbering sounds emanating from this act—Gerard just couldn't say he wasn't enjoying this thoroughly.

"Fuck—Fuck, oh, fuck, aangh. Shit, shit, shit." 

A jumble of curses and whimpers, Gerard went from digging apart the piece of furniture he was melting into to almost tearing out his own hair.

The pressure of pleasure just kept building and building; he didn't know how his cock could keep it all contained without exploding. Like a pipe about to burst, Gerard got "fuller" until all he could do was release. Groaning loudly while clutching your hair, he came straight down your spasming throat.

You lifted your head from his cock with a pop. There was some cum dribbling down your chin, but you wiped it off casually and returned to straddling Gerard.

"How was that?" 

Gerard couldn't speak for a moment, "Like..." he took a second. "Like, I can be mauled by a zombie right now and be satisfied."

"Oh, stop." You skittishly hit his arm in a ploy of bashfulness.

You were naked next to him, after giving him the blowjob of his life, your tits were still out, and you'd taken the time to take off your panties. It was the first ever time Gerard had seen a pussy in real life. 

"We can't die virgins," you stated like it was law. "Take me, won't you, Gerard?"

For someone so shy, Gerard felt pretty electrified to go and pin you down against the couch while kissing you all over. There was a gentle balance in his strength, he wanted to be firm but also not hurt you. Though, from the way you squealed in delight when he bound your wrists together above your head with his hand—Gerard assumed he could be a little rough.

Wetness soaked your pussy, just like how his cock was still dripping with your saliva. There was no lube nor condoms in a zombie apocalypse—there was barely even food and water—so you'd have to rely on pure bodily function.

"Put it in," you gasped, wriggling against Gerard's hold on you. "Please, god, put it in me."

"Won't it hurt?" Gerard questioned, biting his lip. He felt both concerned and infeasibly turned on.

"Don't care—just finger me a bit, yeah? C'mon."

Gerard used his free hand and explored your pussy; weary at first, careful to not tear something. Kissing you was pretty easy, but fingering a girl was a whole other realm. There were so many parts he had to bypass, but he used your moans to guide himself to the correct places. Soon enough, he'd slipped one finger inside and you were ecstatic.

Noticing the little twitching bulb, Gerard gulped and rubbed it with his thumb as he plunged another finger inside.

"Oh, fuck!" You practically screamed, arching your back like crazy.

The zombies outside sure were getting a show, if they could hear.

As globs of sweat formed on Gerard's forehead, he stretched you out enough for his tip to go inside. Your face scrunched up and you let out a low hiss. He kept rubbing slow circles into your clit to ease the pain a bit.

"Keep going." You urged.

Gerard did as told.

When he settled, your muscles got all relaxed and you nodded for him to start moving. The feeling was even better than your throat—your pussy, it was so warm, and held him in all the right ways. Gerard almost didn't want to start moving because he felt like he'd cum in you right away. 

Of course, all that was just fear talking, so Gerard began with slow thrusts. Apparently, he was doing it right since your eyes were wide and your moans were getting sloppy. You kept spewing out incoherent messes of words, especially as he sped up.

Who knew, it kept feeling better and better the more he moved?

Gerard was slamming into you, groaning, his hands shaking as he was still restricting your arms—the restraint was a huge turn on for both of you. Peaking up, he saw he was leaving faint handprints behind. That made him want to mark you up even more.

Like those reanimated corpses roaming outside, Gerard bit down on your neck. Were you some kind of masochist? You had to be from how much you loved that. Your legs wrapped around his waist and brought him in even closer, driving Gerard to pick up the pace before he could even lift himself from your shoulder.

He went even faster inside you, the slapping sounds louder than your gnarly moans, "Gerard!" You shrieked at a particularly brutal thrust.

The sex felt amazing, but there was something deeper that made Gerard's insides get all bubbly. It was the connection.

Finally, he felt some kind of hope. 

A warm body, conversations he missed having, experiences he never thought he'd have. Gerard had been planning his own death since this thing started, he knew he wouldn't be one of those survivors who made it to the end. Everyday felt like he was delaying the inevitable.

Gerard didn't even know he was crying until you pointed it out, and you didn't realize tears were coating your face, either, until he told you. You were both crying. Had been, for a while.

Through these tears, you laughed, "Come on, isn't this supposed to be a joyous occasion? We were getting so kinky earlier."

"Sorry," Gerard mumbled, slowing down, his grip loosening. "Didn't mean to ruin the mood so out of left field—I just, this all is so great. I feel alive again."

Your laughs and moans gurgled with soft sobbing sounds, it was hard to describe what emotions you were exhibiting. However, you pulled your arms free and draped them across his shoulders.

"You don't know how relieved this has made me, either," you pecked him on the lips while staring into his eyes. "I told you how I was going crazy being alone, right? Constantly worrying about those undead fucks finding me... I couldn't take it for much longer."

Both of your streams of tears were blending into each other.

Gerard held you close and tight.

Embracing each other's bodies, Gerard moved again, now so much closer to orgasming than he was before. Instead of screaming, you were grunting and moaning into his ears. Everything felt so much more intimate, and for just a moment, he could fantasize a scenario:

After a long day's work, he came home to unwind with his beautiful partner. On the couch of your home, you made love. Outside, society went on as normal; people talked, children played, dogs barked, and cars drove by.

Being as close to you as he could get without complete fusion, Gerard gently pulled out and came all over your stomach. 

In the aftermath, he was still hovering above you, and you were absolutely breathless, looking like you were swaying on the edge of passing out. Gerard pressed his forehead against yours, feeling ticklish from your eyelashes grazing his face.

cw: age gap, frankie is 43 and reader is 19

Seattle was usually dreary for the better part of the year. Frank had been to the place a few times over his career, and in almost every single instance, he was met with grey skies and a perpetually "almost rainy" atmosphere. However, there would be very few instances during the summer where everything really came alive.

In other words: it was a beautiful day.

The band made it a point to arrive a week before their set to not only properly settle and rehearse but also get a chance to explore; especially because everyone had decided to come with their families this time around. Everyone except for Frank. 

That was fine, obviously. He'd already anticipated that his travels would be seldom the company of his bandmates and crew as they would automatically prefer to be with their spouses and children.

Which also meant that he anticipated you being alone, as well.

Too young to be married, far too young to have kids, your parents unable to take time off work, and your friends too busy with school and internships and such.

It was just you. And it was just Frank.

"Hey, would you want to go out with me today?" You asked him in all innocence but Frank swore you were batting your eyelashes at him.

"Yeah, sure, that sounds good. Where were you thinking?"

You hummed, "Downtown Seattle has some cool spots. I've always wanted to go to Pike Place Market—did you know? It's one of the oldest operating farmer's markets in the U.S."

"The more you know," Frank chuckled, patting your shoulder. "Anyway, that sounds like a plan, though. I'm guessing the others aren't tagging along?"

"Unfortunately not. I believe Mikey's going to be checking out the gum wall and Gerard mentioned something about visiting art stores... and I don't know about Ray."

"Well, they will be sorely missing out."

Frank called a cab from the hotel; they did have the option of personal drivers, but Frank thought that was way too boujee. The two of you settled into the backseat and you immediately pulled out your phone along with some wired headphones.

The cab driver noticed first, commenting, "It's rare to see your generation still have those! I thought the wireless stuff was all the rage—my daughter's been begging for the ones from Apple."

"I think these have more charm," you said, smiling. "I guess they are less convenient 'cause they're always getting tangled, but I like the look. They feel like a fashion statement."

"Fashion statement", she says. 

Frank shook his head, it was like at every turn, he was reminded of how starkly young you were. For good reason, of course, because you were that young.

And funnily enough, he was the one using the wireless earbuds. With a sigh, he flicked open the case and tried to get some shut eye while drowning everything out. However, before he could, and as the car began rolling forward, he heard you curse under your breath.

"Everything okay?"

You seemed to be in disbelief, smiling through the pain as you lifted up a tangled mess of wires, "Sorry, just... my earbuds. They were fine throughout the plane ride but they decide to not work on me now. How frustrating."

"Like, at all?"

"At all," you sighed, throwing the heap back into your bag. "Ah, well, there's probably a place that sells them at the—"

"Wanna share mine?"

Frank asked that, but he was already offering you one of his. Your eyes lit up like a switchboard and you happily took his earbud. Joy radiated from every inch of your body and you sat there, hands between your thighs, gleefully waiting for Frank to put something on.

Now he was feeling some pressure. Frank clicked his tongue as he just pressed on what he was listening to most these days. Coincidentally, it seemed to be music you enjoyed, too, as on the first track, you exclaimed: "I love this song!"

It was Rockaway Beach by the Ramones.

Frank felt a breeze wash by his face, he looked to the left and saw that you'd rolled down the window. Like a scene from a movie or a music video, the wind was blowing through your hair, each strand looking like it was being held up by a million tiny hands. Most of your face was covered, but Frank could still see your lips which were curled into a half-circle shape. 

The setup was perfect for a candid photo; but if he did any of that, then he would most certainly be labeled a creep. Maybe if your relationship was different, different like friends, or close friends, or lovers—

No way, Frank thought before he could even go there. It's only been a little over a year. And we live in completely different timelines. 

So, he closed his eyes and tried his best to think about something else. The show was tomorrow. They had practice tonight. There were a lot of stakes: songs to perfect, a fanbase to impress, their reputation on the line. No pressure, right? Nothing Frank wasn't used to. Oh, they had their new uniforms, too—that was exciting. Frank hadn't seen you in yours yet, he didn't even know what it looked like exactly, but he knew you would look great.

Here he went again, thinking about you. Was it so bad, though? He was just being dramatic, acting like it was forbidden fruit or something, you were just...

"Oh, hey mom!"

A kid.

"Yeah, the band's just taking some time to explore the city before rehearsal tonight. Gosh, I can't believe it, either! Where's dad?"

A kid who still had her mom check in on her through the phone.

You held your phone to one ear while the other was still occupied by the earbud—that was cute, you were so excited by this small gesture that you didn't even want to take out a simple earbud. Frank took the courtesy of quieting the song to give you an easier time talking to your folks.

Flashing him an appreciative grin, you caught your mom up on all the adventures. That went on for a while, a couple of minutes, until you turned the phone around and suddenly began gesturing for him to take it. "She wants to talk to you" you whispered, urging.

Frank took the phone so quickly and so clumsily that he nearly dropped it, "Hello?" Your mom was as bright and cheerful as you; she thanked him endlessly, to the point where he began getting a little choked up. "Have no fear, ma'am, your little girl is safe and sound with us. You must be so proud—she's a damn prodigy."

"She is, isn't she?" She gushed. Frank could practically see her patting your head and coddling you.

Well, she was already coddling you, and you'd begun to get beet red from her infinite compliments, "Alright, mom, we're here now! Gotta bounce. See you, okay?" You insisted, finally pressing on the end call button after she squeezed out just a few more encouraging words.

It wasn't as though you were lying, though. The cab stopped a few feet from the market, Frank paid the fare. 

"Your mom seems nice." Frank said as he threw on his sunglasses.

"Sometimes, it's overwhelming, but I'm not complaining. It's great to have a supportive parent."

"I can attest to that—the Iero's have always been musicians and supporters. Which is why I got so many of 'em tatted on my body."

"Yeah, I know a thing or two about your tattoos..." You trailed off, your eyes fixated on his exposed hands for a few, very prolonged seconds, not realizing what you'd said right away. 

When the moment finally came, you were stammering to explain yourself, "I mean—your tattoos, they're just so... vibrant. It's a big talking point in the fanbase. We all love them! I don't have any myself but I studied yours so that maybe it can influence me one day. I really love your tattoos is what I'm trying to say. Each and every one of them."

Wow. If you'd vomited your words any faster, a bit of actual throw up might have come out, too.

"You're good. I didn't take any offence to it. It's quite admirable that you take this much interest in me—I mean, us."

That word again. "Admirable". Frank knew that was his form of majorly coping with the fact that he was thinking thoughts only a creepy man would think. Because deep down, underneath all of this desperate trying to convince himself—Frank's jeans tightened from the way you said you "knew a thing or two" about his tattoos. The unintentional lowering of your voice, the way your hooded gaze immediately fixated on his hands. 

God, it had just been so long since someone had shown him this much interest.

And you were just so young. Your spirits as bountiful as the first time he ever picked up a guitar. When you played the drums, sparks began flying and the world stopped to listen to your masterful playing.

This was just him chasing a bygone era, he knew it. The nostalgic stage of The Black Parade and seeing such fresh, new talent in their roster was making him feel homesick for the past. Now that he was a divorcee, it made him think he could be open to novel avenues; he could be, but he was sure these "avenues" weren't meant to be so young. 

A nice woman in her thirties or forties, or at least her late twenties. Frank could find someone like that instead. Someone who wasn't still clinging onto her mother's breasts when he was in the prime of his career.

Get ahold of yourself!

"So... I was thinking we could check out the first ever Starbucks then maybe get something to eat—there's a really famous seafood restaurant if you like that kind of stuff, it's located in this super cool old-timey place that has a vintage ice cream parlor. But first, I need to use the ladies room."

Frank waited for you outside the bathroom, it wasn't too crowded since it was just a regular Thursday, and he wasn't famous enough to have people mobbing him. There were a few shops in the area selling all sorts of things. Seafood was a big product considering the legacy of this market, but there were also trinkets galore, ranging from collectible items to everyday stuff. 

From the corner of his eye, he spotted a pair of wired earbuds. Only seven bucks.

-

"Man, how long has it been since we put on these bad boys?"

As per the theme of the tour, the band knew they wanted to bring back the uniforms. When people pictured The Black Parade, these Stygian beauties were probably the first thing that came to mind. They were a bit different, though; made with higher quality materials and with these red accents here and there as well as a few embellishments. Gerard's in particular looked so much more professional.

Frank stared at himself, there was definitely a difference between this version of himself in this uniform versus the twenty-five-year-old kid who first dawned it on all those years ago. 

The "dad weight" he put on was most notable. Aw, well, all's natural with age.

Looking around, the other guys had differences, too: Ray's curls were so much longer but remained just as luscious, Mikey's hair was all spiky now when before he used to insist upon having his bangs cover half his face, and Gerard? He wasn't rocking the bleached white look anymore. If he tried to pull a stunt like that again at his age, then all of his hair would probably fall right out.

Frank combed his hand through his hair; he remembered when he had a fuller head, too. 

Keeping his hand in his pocket, Frank felt the square outline of the earbuds he'd bought you. This felt stupid, so, so stupid. Frank even wrapped a little ribbon around it—okay, he got one of the costume people to do it, his hands were only gifted with playing the guitar and doing licentious things. 

Giving gifts is fine and dandy, but he shouldn't be so nervous about it. Again, get ahold of yourself.

You emerged from the curtain wearing your designated uniform. As expected, it was adorable and fit you so naturally, like a glove. The top was the same as theirs, only your pants were traded out for a skirt that ended just above the knee. You'd decided to put on some extravagant makeup, too, just some foundation that was three shades too white and heavy dark eye makeup.

Frank loved it.

"How do I look?" You asked him.

"Fantastic." He said, holding back a whole spiel.

"Not too much?" You pointed to the makeup.

"Gerard's gonna be bleeding out and the clown will blow himself up in a few hours, so you're fine, kid."

You were so young he was subconsciously calling you "kid".

Not wanting to dwell on the unpleasant thought, Frank hurriedly fished the tiny box from his pocket and handed it to you, "Just something small to help the nerves."

There was no other way to describe your expression except for "starstruck". In a tiny voice, you muttered, "Frank..."

Hearing that only made him feel terrible—it was just a dumb pair of earbuds he got at a marketplace for seven dollars. Disappointment was inevitable, or a forged reaction to pity him.

Yet when you uncovered his subpar gift, you took it with both hands and lifted it to the light as though gazing at a pair of finely bejewelled earrings. It took only a second more until your arms were wrapped around him. 

The hug was perfectly unimpeachable. Frank had never been so close to your body—he could smell your shampoo and the tang of the multiple layers of foundation coating your face to achieve that ghostly look. You fit perfectly in his arms, and your waist felt at home in between his hands. Your back was trembling, so were your legs, and your hands were weakly clinging onto his clothes.

This all seemed so...

You tried to look at the bright side of things.

Like, first and foremost, your loved ones were all alright. You didn't know anybody who lived in New York besides your coworkers who all got home safe and sound, so there were no terrible emotional repercussions. 

Okay, some terrible emotional repercussions.

The biggest one being the fact that you couldn't sleep normally for the first couple of weeks. You would always, always wake up at some shitty time of morning, trembling, drenched in cold sweat, and with your heartbeat threatening to swallow you whole. In your mind, all that played were rehashings of the same event over and over again. The plane, the buildings, the crash.

You avoided the news like the plague.

Frank came over a lot during these times.

He was always a phone call away, and his night owl tendencies led him to your door whether it was two, three, or even six in the morning. If he was low on gas or couldn't be there in person for some reason, he'd always be down to call or text.

You remembered, on the day of the incident, you had your first ever night terror and called Frank while feeling the every single blood vessel pump throughout your veins. 

Frank answered, "Are you okay?"

"I'm not," you responded. "I'm not at all. Frank, I feel everything but I can't feel a thing at all."

That was all the convincing he needed to show up at your door with two beers and a dumb smile. The two of you climbed out your bedroom window and sat on your roof, just like you used to in high school. Cliché, but good times. 

During a swig, you told him, "Y'know, Gerard was thinking of starting a band. He seemed quite assured about it."

"Damn, really?" Frank asked, eyebrows raised. "I know he's an artsy dude, but I always took him to lean towards the drawing and painting side of things. Did he say what exactly he wants to do? Like, guitar? Drums? Bass? Vocals?"

"He's not sure yet. Everything is in its beginning stages, so none of that is figured out. But if I had to choose, then I think being a vocalist suits him the best."

"Yeah, that makes sense. I can definitely see the dude hiding some crazy vocal capabilities."

"Right?"

It was fall, so the sun wasn't going to rise for another couple of hours. All there was, was darkness, half-empty beers, your roof, Frank, and you.

"I have some news, too."

You raised your brow, an indication for him to go on.

Taking in a breath, Frank downed the rest of his beer and howled at all the fizz tearing his throat apart. You laughed as you told him to quiet down. He listened and suppressed his sounds of pain to muted groans.

"I don't think Pencey's gonna be around for much longer," before you could speak, or even react, Frank went on to clarify. "We're not breaking up... not now, anyway. The studio's got some gigs planned for us. But I don't see this as a long-term thing."

"Oh, Frank..."

Frank got one look at your expression before he crumbled, "God, I couldn't have picked a worser time to say that. Forget it. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make this about myself—it was just that you were talking about Gerard and—never mind. Are you okay?"

The way he said that verbatim to the exact tone he used earlier was astounding.

"I'm fine," you said while punching his arm, which nearly made him lose grip of the empty beer bottle. "I was just having the natural psychological consequences to witnessing such a traumatic event. It'll go away. Eventually."

"You of all people have taught me not to suppress my emotions." Frank retorted. Crap. You hated when he was right. "So, spill. Tell me all your woes and don't be shy on the details."

"Okay," you sighed, defeated. "Seeing all of that... it threw me off. Not to recite quotes, but I thought about how fragile life can be. How, if I the place I worked at was just a few more miles away, I might not be here with you right now. And Gerard, he was so close to it all, too. For him, a few blocks would have done it. That's terrifying."

You found yourself instinctively leaning into Frank, until your head was basically lolling off his shoulder.

"It's be natural to think that way. Life is fragile. That's why we find ways to weave around that fragility. You've done a fantastic job at doing that so far, so this is just a setback—hell, I'd be damned if you weren't the most positive person in my life."

"You sure?"

"No doubt about it."

Frank softened, he leaned back until his head was resting against your window sill and you went down right alongside him. With one hand, he used it as a comforter to his head, with the other, he held you close. September wasn't ever too cold in Jersey, that was reserved for mid-November.

There weren't any stars that night, not even a silver speckle in the sky; undoubtedly the effects of the inordinate amounts of gas and plumes of smoke from the burning buildings. 

"Seeing the fall through the screens wasn't even the worst part," you spoke. "What keeps me up are the eerie reports I heard through the radio. The distinct sound of the man behind the voice trying to suppress his panic through eerily sterile, robotic tones."

"Makes things seem so dystopian, doesn't it?"

"Extremely."

Pausing, Frank looked down at you and you craned your neck to look up at him, "What do you want to do form now on?"

"How do you mean?"

"Future plans, goals, new bucket list topics... stuff like that."

You decided to sit up for this, it felt right to do so, "Well, the band, of course. I want it to go someplace. Make a change, be that difference in someone's life like what the bands I love did to mine. I want this to be a career and now that this happened, I'll be pouring in so much more of my time to make that happen."

"Then you'd have to invent a twenty-fifth hour and an eighth day of the week because you're already on this business twenty-four-seven."

"That's sweet."

"Hey," Frank sat up. "This ain't just lip service. I mean it."

In truth, you didn't exactly know what to say to that. You didn't exactly know what to say or think of any of this. There were times where you liked to think that you had everything figured out. Pursue this band thing for a couple of years—if it takes off, then make it your career, if it doesn't, then go back to school and study to become something else. But now, that second scenario was seeming less like an equal path and rather the worst case scenario.

It scared you that you were beginning to consider music to be your only path, whether or not you could make a "justifiable" living off of it. Nothing else would feel right. Everything else would feel like a permanent sinking feeling.

Your future was to pursue music or die trying. 

Hey, maybe that should be a lyric or something. It would look sick on a shirt.

"I don't think you understand, Frank, I need this music thing to be my career. There isn't a second option now—Christ, I am one good push away from dropping out of university!"

Frank's hands shot up and motioned you to slow down, "Woah, there. Let's reel it back in, yeah? Is this your heart speaking or the adrenaline?"

"I've realize that I don't want to live for a second best ending. Life's fragility being shoved into my face in such a visceral way makes second best seem like a lifetime of 'what if' and 'what I could have been'. My life can't be a series of could and if and potentially. That won't do, Frank, it'd break me eventually."

"Damn," Frank whistled. "Welcome to the club, then. Y'know what I've been thinking? I want to get a big, fat tatty. Right here."

Frank took two of his fingers, stuck them together like he was trying to dip them into some hair gel, then smacked the right side of his neck. It was up high, so high that a standard turtleneck nor a high collar could even begin to cover it.

Giggling at your shocked face, he continued, "It'll be something gross and creepy but also cool—ooh, like a scorpion."

"And why would you do this? Your mother would cry."

" 'Cause I don't want a proper job, either!" Frank exclaimed, sticking his arms out as though he was waving a plane in. "Tell me, if you were a corporate big wig, would you hire some punk with a scorpion neck tattoo? No! Getting one like that is basically telling myself to pursue music or die trying."

Your eyes widened, and this time, you really did drop the empty beer bottle, "I was thinking the exact same thing! Wouldn't that look so sick on a shirt or something? I'm claiming it right now."

"Claiming it? You can't copyright a phrase you just thought of!"

"Too bad, Frankie."

"Dictator."

All you did was shrug, and Frank flipped you off in return. The gesture was laughable. He could be so childish. Definitely not a good role model.

The two of you looked back to see hints of orange start to dilute an otherwise black sky. There was a wordless agreement to stay until sunrise. Until you heard birds chirping and blue collar dads revving their engines at the crack of dawn to go and provide for their families. 

You nudged Frank while leaning against your arm, "If Pencey doesn't pan out, join Gerard's band."

Frank didn't say anything. Another wordless agreement, perhaps. How great would that be, to see Gerard's sing his heart out while Frank tore up the stage on his trusty guitar right behind him. Add a classy bassist, a rocking drummer, and another guitarist for good measure and that was a surefire recipe for success.

"I'll get a tattoo like that, too." You decided at that moment.

Frank dropped his beer bottle, it rolled off the roof and joined yours in the azalea bush below. 

"Serious?"

You nodded vigorously, even holding out your pinky, "It's a promise. Some people like to make marriage pacts with their friends—like, "if I'm not married by forty, let's get hitched". But you and I, Frank? We're going to make a pact that we'll do music until we die. It'll be our one and only purpose. How's that sound?"

Frank didn't hesitate as he wrapped his pinky around yours. It was slightly thicker, but stubby.

"Sounds beautiful."

tw: this chapter contains graphic descriptions of the events of 9/11

Frank: sry 2 hear that ur show got moved. it's 2day though, right? 11th?

You: yep! be there or die

Frank: of course. wuldnt miss it 4 the wrld 

You: see you 2night, dude. get sum sleep

Frank: ok. gud luck

You: :D

Frank: :-)

It was exactly five minutes until six in the morning when Frank sent his last message before his extremely late slumber. You were hunched over and sitting on an upside down crate in the back, tucking your phone away as a rather violent yawn was forced out of you. It was one of those yawns that brought tears to the corners of your eyes as your jaw fully unhinged in a way that could best be described as a predator about to take a big bite out of their prey.

"Tired?" A coworker asked, though the question was rhetorical.

"Very," you answered, smacking your lips after such a yawn. "Getting up and four-thirty in the morning... that should be illegal."

"Tell me about it." She said, applying an extra layer of mascara while peering into her tiny compact mirror. 

You watched this, grinning to yourself while doing so, "Got a date?"

"No... just that incredibly handsome foreign businessman is a regular on Tuesday mornings so why not look pretty for him?"

"What, so he can sweep you off your feet and you guys can ride off in his Lamborghini into the Venice sunset?" You teased, and she gave you a look. "Kidding... though, you are very pretty so I wouldn't be surprised if he did."

She rolled her eyes while shutting her compact with a loud snap, "How come you're not interested?"

"Me?" You pointed to yourself, honestly quite baffled. "Rich guys aren't my type."

That comment, in turn, made her look incredibly baffled as well, "Did I just hear you right? 'Rich guys aren't your type'? How could you say that?"

You shrugged, "Well, not to be stereotypical but rich businessmen like that tend to just be too rigid. I mean, I just imagine they live some kind of robotic routine everyday and only strive to make as much money as possible. They seem so bland, to the point where they almost seem psychotic."

"Okay, not all New York businessmen are American Psycho."

"Fair enough. Your guy probably isn't not an axe-wielding, misogynistic, maniac. Nonetheless, the clean, Richie Rich lifestyle just ain't me."

"To each their own, I suppose."

Both of you were up now as it was now a minute until the early morning vultures were let in. All of the news anchors, the freelancers, the journalists, the businessmen (and women) you were talking about, and every other possible profession there was to be found in the great New York City would come flooding in soon enough. 

And flooding in, they came, all looking to get their non-negotiable fix caffeine for the day or a hearty plate of breakfast to fuel their undoubtedly gruelling work day. Working here for a few months meant you recognized some of these individuals as being regulars, such as the businessman with shiny olive skin and dark hair that your coworker just fawned over. You weren't biased or anything, but you seriously felt that there was tension between the two of them and you hoped it would work out because she deserved someone nice.

Your favorite, however, was this haughty news anchor—a woman in her thirties with bold red hair and an even bolder red lip painted on at all times. Her wardrobe was only matching skirt suits or classy dresses that went past her knees covered in tan pantyhose. Her shoes of choice? Heels, of course. All her jewelry was refined and strictly pearl or real gold. She was a real character, and you loved her stories as much as she loved yours.

"The usual, I presume?" You asked and she smiled.

"The usual."

"Before I go, what're the plans for today? How will you seize the day?"

Placing her elbows on the table with her fingers interlocked, she rest her chin atop them and pondered for a moment before answering, "I was supposed to have a meeting with some big shot exec at that trade center, but he ended up coming down with something nasty so I had to reschedule. Shame, I was really looking forward to visiting as those buildings are a true, American spectacle."

"I've never been so I wouldn't know."

"Do you have any interest in doing so?"

You snorted, as though the idea itself was ridiculous, which it was. Someone like you, at a place that was just filled to the brim with money hungry vultures like that? You'd be eaten alive if you didn't go crazy first.

Though you thought these things, you just gave the simple response of, "No, not at all. It's not in my future prospects, if you know what I mean."

"That's understandable. Speaking of future prospects, though... how's your band?"

"Amazing, thank you for asking. We have a show today, actually!"

"Oh, well, that's quite exciting. Perhaps I will give one of your shows a visit one day."

Now that was as likely as you visiting the trade center she spoke of. You two lived in two utterly different worlds and although change and novel things were important; sometimes, some experiences should just be left separate. You just couldn't imagine such a dignified and savvy woman being in a crowd full of either sweaty, shirtless guys or punk rockers. The smell alone would probably kill her.

But again, you merely said, "That would be nice, I'd love that." Because it was just the polite thing to do. And despite everything, you'd grown fond of this woman to the point where it genuinely would be nice.

In any case, you got her the usual, a cappuccino and stack of blueberry pancakes, while engaging in a few more friendly bouts of conversation here and there as you zipped around the restaurant while it grew increasingly busy.

The last thing she asked before leaving, though, was this, "That little tattooed friend of yours isn't hanging around today, hm?"

"Oh, Frank?" You asked, trying not to laugh at her calling him your "little tattooed friend", "It's way too early for him. He went to bed just a bit ago, actually."

"Shame. I quite enjoy his presence."

"You do? I thought you found him irritating. Most do."

She chuckled, adjusting a ring on her finger, "He is, but that's what makes him special. It's the reason why you like him so much, isn't it?"

"It is." You had to admit.

"I hope you realize how much he likes you. Perhaps in the future, you may." She said finally, placing down the empty cup where her drink had been, its rim decorated with the imprint of her lipstick.

And you, you were left pondering what she meant by that as when you tried to ask, all she did was give you a ten dollar tip like always before waltzing out the door. 

"I hope you realize how much he likes you"?, "perhaps in the future, you may"? What on earth could she mean by that? You looked down at the bill in your hand, so straight and free of wrinkles it almost looked like fake money.

As you tucked away the Hamilton, the chimes to the door jingled and you immediately switched your "server mode" on. Turns out, though, you didn't need to.

Because instead of a stranger or another regular, it was Gerard.

"Hey, good morning." He greeted, one hand clutching the strap of his satchel and the other holding a sketchbook. 

"Gerard, hi!" You skipped right up to him. "Morning. Really early morning. What brings you here?"

"Just some coffee before my internship meeting."

"Right! That's today. Cartoon Network, right?" You elbowed him before leading him to a table, the same one your favorite regular was sitting at. "Big things are happening to you, and you deserve every bit of it."

Smiling, he told you, "Thanks."

"So, is a coffee all you'll be having today?"

"Yep."

"Then, I will be right back with that."

You waved before going off, and he waved back. It really was early—not even seven in the morning yet—which felt sort of uncanny because you never saw Gerard this early. You never saw anyone this early because all of your friends tend to be night owls, you included. Actually, this may be the first time you saw Gerard at this time of day as his internships were mostly allocated in Manhattan or lower parts of New York.

This made you wonder why he would choose to visit you, even. It had to be planned.

Whatever the reason may be, you were happy. Seeing a familiar face was always the remedy to any ailment, even one as pressing as chronic tiredness.

As the beans began being ground into dark brown, steaming hot liquid, you took a sneaky little peak at Gerard's table as it was close enough to the counter that you got a nice, full view of it. And whether it was by coincidence or intention, your eyes met. Gerard looked away first, he always did, and you were left wondering again, this time of another query.

Was he looking the whole time or was it really a coincidence?

Something that was more curious, however, was that he looked to be doodling something on a napkin and you were suddenly dying to know what it was. You also thought about how diligent he was; the two of you might both be artists, but of different crafts, and it was seriously commendable that he could find inspiration wherever he went. Even if it was on the napkin of a small, tucked away establishment.

"Your coffee, sir." You came around to deliver, bending your knees just a little to try and get a glimpse, but Gerard was quick in hiding it. 

You clicked your tongue, teasing, "Can't I see?"

"Yes... but not now. When it's done, you can."

"Oh? Well, if that's the case, then draw away and make sure to show me later." You winked then left him be.

Gerard went right back to it, his coffee being left untouched for a good couple of minutes, that's how concentrated he was. And sure, you could have attempted at a sly glance towards it again, but you didn't want to ruin the surprise as this clearly was something special. Thus, even though it pained you to keep your wandering eyes away from whatever it is he was doing, you did it anyway. For both your sake and his.

Instead, whenever you happened to drive by his table, you chose to fixate on something else instead, and what else to look at other than the person literally sitting there? 

Every time you would see him, Gerard was assuming the same position and expression. Back hunched, clutching his pencil, brows furrowed. At least he was actually drinking his coffee, though, it was about seventy-five percent done when he suddenly flinched up after checking the time, which was seven fifteen.

"Shit." You heard him hiss under his breath.

Before you could ask what was wrong, Gerard chugged what remained of the coffee, left enough money to pay for his one drink, then quickly began shoving everything into his bag in a complete rush.

"Here. Uh, what I was drawing—I gotta go now—see you."

He placed the folded napkin in your palms before getting out as fast as he could. 

"See you later...?" You murmured, watching as he nearly bumped into a waiter on his chaotic way out. The only thing you could assume to cause such a reaction was that he lost track of time and was now on route to being late.

That was probably the case, and you silently wished him good luck as you cleared his table, tucking the napkin away in the waistband of your apron for now. 

It wouldn't be until much later, after more than an hour had passed when you could finally take a breather and get a look at the mystery that had been eating away at you since it was placed in your hands.

With your back pressed against the wall behind the counter, right next to the ledge which had the radio that had been turned on and babbling boring news all morning, you took the napkin and unfolded it amidst the ongoing hustle and bustle.

But for a moment there, things seemed to go quiet. You didn't know what to expect from Gerard's drawing; a nice panoramic shot of the restaurant, perhaps, or maybe something of the food, or it could just be something completely abstract all together. It wasn't. It was you. Multiple little doodles of you throughout the short time frame he was there.

There was one of you while you were making coffee, a shot of you from the back with your hands tampering with the machine. Another depicted you with a tray in your hands, rushing to get a rather large breakfast order to a big table. And the final drawing consisted of you looking down at the notebook you used to take orders; though it was unfinished, with the lines of your hair suddenly stopping and the hem of your skirt being messily finished—it was made with love. The whole thing was.

The drawing which founded this friendship, the one which inadvertently changed the course of your life was still resting in place where it always was. Safely tucked inside your wallet so you could be with it wherever you went. 

At that moment, it was apparent that a new addition would be joining it. 

You couldn't stop smiling, your cheeks hurt from smiling. If you weren't at work right now, perhaps you'd shed a tear from how sweet and unprompted this gesture was. 

I should put this somewhere safe. You thought, tearing yourself off the wall you'd more or less melded onto during this. 

But it was as things were going back to normal and the gears in your head were turning to force you into "server mode" once more that the radio which had been spewing the mundane humdrum since this morning announced something that would inadvertently change your life like the drawing in your wallet.

"... We're getting reports that a... plane has crashed into the World Trade Centers in New York City. The details are blurry as of now, but eyewitness reports say they can see smoke pouring from the buildings..."

At precisely eight-fifty in the morning, the restaurant, the entire state, America, and the world as a whole came to a still. 

"Change the channels!" Your coworker shrieked, a shrill panic in her voice. A panic so vast it was hard to imagine that just hours prior, she was joking to you about marrying a rich businessman.

It was hard to imagine that everything had been so painfully mundane before this.

As per her request, the TV channel quickly flipped from playing an old rerun of a sitcom to the news. Mirroring what the man on the radio had said, the towers were hit. Dark grey plumes of smoke wafted from one of the two towers, and it was so visceral it made your knees go weak.

People dropped their forks, discarded their knives, and left their food and drinks untouched atop their tables as they ran to gather around the TV or stayed glued in place, sweat pooling down their face, frozen in fear.

A series of "oh my god", frightened gasps, and sobs rang heavy in the air. The one disruption being a woman who either couldn't take it anymore or was in such a frenzy that she had to bolt out of the restaurant in such a hurry she nearly bumped into somebody, much like how Gerard had fled—

Gerard.

You made an attempt at forcing yourself off the floor, but your legs were so shellshocked with terror that they refused to move as you intended them to. Even so, you forced yourself to move nonetheless by crawling across the tiles, on your hands and knees, huffing and panting; not from exhaustion but the primal feeling of fear.

Because his internship was in Manhattan. Downtown New York. Where the towers were.

Retrospectively, trying to call him was a pipe dream. The chaos of the whole situation would have cut the phone lines or at least he wouldn't have been able to pick up your call but you tried nonetheless because it was all your horror-stricken brain could think to do. 

A few haunting rings echoed, they echoed then they stopped because no one was on the other end to pick up.

You tried again. 

Dead end.

You knew you had a limited number of calls left to your cell, but you tried anyway. You tried until your fingers were starting to go numb and each empty ring felt like a punch to the gut. 

It seemed countless, you couldn't give a number to your attempts if you tried.

The door to the backroom was left slightly ajar so you could hear everything that was going on in the main restaurant area loud and clear. So when the radio spoke again and when the live view of the towers broadcasted what happened next—there wasn't a chance you would miss it.

"Both of the towers at the World Trade Center have been struck..."

"... America is under attack."

The slight possibility that this may have been a horrible, freak accident was thrown out the window and everyone's sanity with it. What was once a quiet bout of mutual terror as people were gathered, eyes wide and tight lipped to see what the deal was was turned on its head and suddenly, it was every man for themselves. The only thing on everyone's minds was to get out of there as soon as possible.

There must have been twenty people there in total, customers and staff alike, and they were all making a run for it as who knew what would happen next? If "America was under attack" then the ones in the state these attacks began in would be the next batch of victims. That was just logic. You needed to take their example and flee, for your sake, but your legs. They just wouldn't move.

You just watched, slumped over against the shelf of baking ingredients as though you'd been mortally wounded and left to die.

The smog had turned from dark grey to a macabre black, and the only color present were the red and yellow born from explosions which left the building on the verge of complete collapse. 

Then, you heard your name being called out, screamed out. Your coworker was running towards you in a frenzy, just shouting your name and beckoning you to stand which you couldn't, and she noticed that, so she took your arm and put it around her shoulder to force you.

This action ended up snapping you out of your haze, at least a little bit, as you found yourself able to stand without crumbling right away. There was no time to get used to this feeling, however, as she was quick to grab your wrist and drag you out of there. 

As you left, you saw that the door chimes had snapped off from excessive force and was now laying, completely wasted.

The subway was cramped. It had to be. But no matter how hard you were being squished in between a flurry of people, no matter the dozens of times your feet had been stepped on to the point where the tip of your shoes had been thoroughly stained, and even no matter all of the delays—you kept still, you kept gripping onto the pole in front of you, and you kept trying not to puke everywhere.

It was the fear that was making you this way. All you could think about was the garish live broadcast of the towers, that image which would undoubtedly be burned inside your mind forever. And with that thought, you pondered about Gerard's whereabouts. He was in the area and that was for certain, but Manhattan was a vast area.

All you could do was hope he was somewhere within that vast area, a space cut off from the chaos.

All you could do was pray.

You looked down at yourself, still in your work uniform. The pocket of your apron still had your tiny notebook and pen, and around your waistband...

Gerard's napkin, the drawings still fresh and the same as when you'd previously seen them. That one moment seemed so far away now, in a different galaxy or universe altogether. You clutched the napkin, uncaring that you were crumpling the thing because it was the last thing he gave to you, or the last thing he would give you.

But you didn't want to think like that. My god, you didn't want to think like that. You didn't want to think like that but you couldn't help yourself in thinking like that. 

This might very well be the last piece of his... You put the napkin to your face, sniffling though you weren't shedding tears, which was strange. There was no scent to it, not even a trace of coffee or anything, it was just the standard paper scent and nothing more. The only indicator of Gerard's involvement with it were the drawings that were displayed so beautifully atop this impromptu canvas. 

Your throat started to feel tight, you knew that if you spoke now for whatever reason, it would come out as nothing more than a choke. 

You arrived at your station.

Alongside a crowd of others, you got off the train and again, with the same crowd, you trudged out back onto New Jersey soil, safe and sound and in one piece.

The first thing you tried was dialling someone again. Anyone. Your parents, Frank, the band, Mikey... anybody would suffice. You just needed to know you weren't alone and you wanted them to know that you hadn't died. That you were safe.

They must be worried sick, you knew well about that because you'd been experiencing this nauseating fear for the past hour.

You knew it would be a long walk home as cabs and anything on the road was too chaotic to even hope of boarding. Plus, you didn't know if you could handle being stuffed into a vehicle like a sardine can again so walking was your only option. 

That was just your reality, but like before, your body wouldn't cooperate and you found yourself taking a few steps before ultimately collapsing onto the curb, head in your hands and holding back so much. Holding back tears, holding back the bile, holding back just passing out right then and there. 

I wonder how everyone's doing... I wonder what they've been doing all day...

Your parents were probably at work, and still at work most likely unless the attacks made them able to leave early; which you hope they did. 

Maggie was supposed to have classes today, but they were set to be in the afternoon, at two-thirty to be exact so she was probably still sleeping. James and Grace were difficult to decipher as neither of them technically had anything planned, but if you had to guess, you guessed that they might be together and practicing right now since they were the guitarists. Chase was at work, you knew that for certain.

And Frank? Sleeping as well, most likely as he'd stayed up until six in the morning and it was barely past ten at this point. On the off chance he was awake, he was probably trying to reach out to you. Everyone was. Probably.

But the lines were dead, you heard several people fretting about that on the train and even in a whole different state, it was so jammed that not even a single call could go through. The only way to let anyone know anything was good old fashioned word of mouth. 

You should get up now. You wished someone were here again to command you to your feet like your coworker did. You hoped she made it home okay, and you hoped all her loved ones were okay, too. And it was as you were thinking about her and therefore the assaults again that you thought you saw something which was just a figment of your exhaustion. Someone familiar and someone you'd been searching for like precious lost treasure.

Short dark hair, satchel, sketchbook, pale skin, and hazel eyes. 

Whatever force was compelling you to stay rooted in place, on your ass, atop the uncomfortably gravelly curb, was expelled and you could find feeling in your legs again as you ran across the street to him. 

"Gerard," you said his name through hoarseness, wanting to scream and shout but being so unable to, that even mustering that one name was trifling. "Oh my god, Gerard."

Like you, he couldn't seem to project his voice, either, not in the slightest. Like you, Gerard's weathered voice managed your name and that was it. The rest was left up to the physical as you found yourselves embraced and entangled together, wound and unwilling to let go.

You two were in the middle of the sidewalk doing this, an action which would usually warrant a passerby barking at you to move the hell out of the way but not today. Perhaps, these would be the only conditions to not incite this particular reaction.

"I saw it directly. The towers falling, I mean." Gerard confided to you after a while of this, a statement which made you look at him, no longer in his arms.

Your throat tightened and you just couldn't take it anymore, you let a few tears fall and that act quickly evolved into entire streams flowing down both of your cheeks. These tears had many meanings behind them; most of it was just relief, but a lot of it was sympathy. Even seeing it on TV was too much for you, so you couldn't even begin to grasp seeing such a tragedy. 

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry you had to go through that, god." Was all you could tell him, sobbing through each word, barely audible.

"It made me think, or more like it made me realize—life is so fleeting. It's so short, so fleeting, and there's only so much you can do within it."

Gerard looked you in the eyes and although he wasn't crying like you were, you still saw the remnants in the redness and puffiness which surrounded his waterline as well as his eyelids. Now, however, he wasn't shedding tears now, he was just staring at you with the utmost focus.

"There's only so much you can do." He said again.

You hesitated, "You're... right." 

"I was lucky, I wasn't one of those people near the wreckage nor did I lose anyone I love within it but not everybody was as fortunate as me and I wish... I wish that I could let every one of those people know that they're not in this alone. That even though I'm a stranger to them, I still care and their feelings are felt."

You couldn't help but be perplexed by his statements; not because they didn't make sense—they made perfect sense—but rather due to the sheer nature of them. 

You didn't know how one person could be so kindhearted.

Gerard had to be suffering, there was no doubt about it because he was a human, after all, one that experiences emotions. Even so, these were the thoughts he chose to focus on. Pure empathy. 

"I want to do that," he said your name. "I want to do that somehow and I realize... I can't do that while I'm doing this, working for those people. Those nameless millionaires who don't know the first thing about putting someone else before them. All I would be is a machine to churn out money makers. Did you know that whenever I went into a meeting, all they would talk to me about was merchandising and how best we could change the show to make it as appealing for investors as possible? It—it drove me crazy."

"Wow, I... I had no idea. But what will you do? Are you going to take your ideas to another studio?" You asked, and Gerard shook his head.

What he said next, you couldn't have anticipated.

"Mind if I smoke during this?"

You were in the midst of trying to get the camera set up when he asked this. Looking at him, Gerard already had both a cigarette and lighter in either of his hands, so you figured it didn't really matter what you said. You didn't care, anyway.

"Yeah, do whatever you want. This is just a casual thing, after all."

"Cool. Thanks." Gerard smiled as he lit the thing.

He took the first drag, a rather long one before blowing it through the corner of his mouth. His face instantly relaxed, eyes closed and all. You gulped, it was no secret that Gerard was attractive, or at least you found him to be incredibly so with his dark hair and faded leather jacket as well as the all around aesthetic of the band itself which heavily contrasted his pretty face.

A lot of people thought this way, and although his talents trumped whatever superficial reason for the band's success, one would have to be lying if they said his looks didn't attribute at least a smidge. That's how pretty he was.

Especially his eyes. 

"Gonna get this party started?" He asked, you hadn't even noticed that he was staring the whole time.

"Right. Sorry, I was just spacing out."

"No problem, take your time." Gerard hummed in a way which made you shiver.

You got the camera set up in no time, it was close, but not all up in his face. Gerard still had a lot of room to fidget and move around as you knew that was a habit of his during interviews (yes, you studied up for this).

With one final exchange of glances, and Gerard inhaling more smoke again, you asked the first question, "What was your first time working with SPIN like?"

Gerard went on a spiel— well, he went on a lot of spiels, it was his favorite thing to do— about a story, a well detailed one about working with a director who he was now great friends with and how he was sprayed with water during the whole ordeal. 

You knew what photoshoot he was talking about, of course, and you just assumed his hair was that greasy but apparently not. That was good to know.

The whole time, Gerard didn't let go of that cigarette, not once. In between lines of dialogue and even during his several speeches, he would always find a way to weave in taking a puff; and it was always so natural that you didn't even notice until a cloud of white and the thick stench of tobacco was in your face. It was hypnotizing, like a fantastic sleight of hand. 

Though shameful to admit as an interviewer, you were so enchanted that some of his answers fell to deaf ears. Could anyone blame you, though? Gerard was great at holding eye contact, and you tried your best to hide behind the camera but he always found a way to stare directly at you. However, it wasn't as though this was the first time interviewing someone attractive in your quite lengthy career, not even close. Gerard was just different, you supposed. Different in both a bad and a good way.

Plus, it was just the proximity of the whole thing. The two of you were utterly alone, squeezed between a bunch of trailers as the evening sky stretched above you, the only source of light behind the dim street lamps from the sidewalk a few feet away. 

You hated the smell of cigarettes, hated the way it lingered on your clothes even though you weren't the one to smoke it, and hated the mess of crumpled ashes it left behind. 

So much hate, dissipated in an instance within this enclosed environment with Gerard. The activity which once seemed so tacky, so classless and downright annoying were the antonyms of those words now— refined, classy, and downright elegant. 

All because it was Gerard doing it.

You were grateful for how dark it was, and how you were standing in the shadows while what little light remained was entirely being used to illuminate Gerard's face.

Right as you were about to get lost again, it was time for another question, and his lips were already around the tip of the cigarette before you even got the next word out.

"You got any uh..."

Except, this time, unlike the others, he opened his mouth slightly to show a tiny glob of smoke inside, then he closed it and took in a deep breath as if to savor whatever awful taste or sensation it was undoubtedly causing as he refused to let it out just yet. That had to hurt, right? Inhaling those toxic fumes then going out of your way to prolong its stay in your mouth. But Gerard looked rather calm, his chin tilted slightly upwards and his body dangerously close while locking eyes with you.

Meanwhile, you were stammering, losing focus. You started over with the initial question, "You got any... things in the works, for um," Your cheeks were so red, you could feel how hot they were. "That you can let out for— for anyone who might be watching this or to... uh, your fans?"

As you fumbled your way through such a simple question, Gerard released the smoke he was keeping trapped, and you could swear that he was directly aiming it towards your face. It hit you, of course, and you began coughing a little.

"Sorry, are you alright?" He asked right away, which made you think that maybe this wasn't intentional.

"I'm fine, I'm fine..." You insisted, keeping your head down, shielding yourself from staring at this man any longer.

Thankfully, he got the message and leaned back to answer your question, at ease unlike the mess you were.

God, this is gonna be on video... You thought, biting the inside of your cheek as a punishment for acting like a damn rookie. Everyone's gonna make fun of me, no doubt. I am the cause of my own ridicule.

Despite this major lapse, though, the rest of the interview went as fine as it possibly could. There were no more idiotic bouts of completely unprofessional floundering on your end, at least. Just a few stutters here and there as you were just a human, after all.

There was only one thing left to do before you were home free, a specific request from your boss pertaining to SPIN's twenty-fifth anniversary.

"Okay, last thing, can you just do one shoutout? Just a happy twenty-fifth birthday to SPIN magazine with your personality."

"Yeah," Gerard answered, enthused. "Alright, sure thing."

He took a moment to think of something probably, shifting weight between his feet as his head was kept at a downwards angle. When he came back up, he gave a little wave with his hand and said in a cheery tone, "Hey, guys, this is Gerard from My Chemical Romance..."

For the first time, he seemed to mess up. As he swept his hand through his hair in a way that made you suck in your breath, Gerard just murmured a small "ugh" while sticking out his tongue before quickly restarting himself and the whole bit.

"Hey, everybody, this is Gerard from My Chemical Romance," He began again, much louder and more confident this time around. "And on behalf of the band and myself, we would love to wish SPIN a happy twenty-fifth anniversary and to thank them so much for the support over the years, putting us on the covers of the magazines. Every time that happens, it's like a dream come true, so it means a lot."

The whole time, he was smiling, hand over his heart while gushing. 

It was so sweet, and the fact that Gerard could find a way to be passionate even over something as little as this was admirable, but the whole time you couldn't help but be fixated on his hands and how big they were. Shame. You should be ashamed of yourself.

At least it was over now.

You shut off the camera right away, not wanting to capture another second of your foolishness.

"Awesome, I appreciate you doing this." You said, tucking it away into your bag.

Gerard responded, "No problem."

You could hear him inhale again, but you held off on getting a glimpse because you knew how your body would react if you did. Instead, you just thought about how this was the longest seven minutes of your life and how you needed to bolt out of there.

"Well, again, thanks. I hope to see you again sometime—"

"Hey, have you ever smoked one?"

You froze, "Sorry?"

Gerard chuckled, "That was kind of out of nowhere for me, my bad. I was just wondering since you were so fixated on my smoking the whole time. I wasn't bothering you, was I?"

"No, you weren't..." Your mouth was dry. "And um, yes, I smoke sometimes."

"Really. Then, how about a joint?"

"... Not since college."

Again, he laughed, "Are you busy?"

Your heart skipped a beat. That question seemed like an innuendo, or maybe you were just crazy.

"I'm not." You answered, though, despite everything.

"Then..." Gerard dropped the cigarette he'd been holding onto like it was his life source and crushed it with the sole of his boot. "Wanna relive your college days?"

In the end, you said yes and you were back inside, leaning against the wall of My Chem's dressing room as Gerard got the joints ready while humming. The songs he would warble ranged from his own to classics from bands he loved, some being ones you'd actually met while working in the industry. None of that mattered, though, you were just so nervous you were practically shaking.

Gerard's back was turned towards you, and you thought about how even his silhouette was striking. Skinny jeans with heavy boots and that aforementioned jacket, a lethal combo.

"They're ready." Gerard announced, holding two in one hand.

"Cool." You replied, rigid, forcing a smile.

Gerard raised his brow as he went to stand next to you, back pressed as well, "Are you okay? I don't want to pressure you to smoke or anything."

"No, that's not it..."

"Then what is it?"

You were closer to him than ever before, shoulder-to-shoulder, able to get such a nice view of his eyes. This was the problem. Him. Gerard and his infinite beauty which was so intense it made you sick.

Obviously you couldn't say that, though, so you just lied, "Just nervous since I haven't done this in years but rest assured, I want to." You said, holding out your palm for one of the joints.

Gerard eased, "I see," He handed one over then brought out his lighter. "If you haven't done this in years, then it might be kind of... grating. Fair warning."

"Thanks for the warning." You held out your joint for him to light, and he obliged. Though oddly, Gerard didn't ignite his right away and instead seemed keen on watching first.

Not thinking much of it and also not wanting to fixate on his eyes, you just took a hit without much thought.

Boy, that was a mistake.

Suddenly, you realized why Gerard waited because you were an absolute mess. Coughing up a storm, almost dropping the joint to nearly cause a fire— was weed always this potent?

"Was weed always this... Jesus... this potent?" You asked through the several chokes, and Gerard casted you a sympathetic look.

"It can be to someone who isn't used to it anymore."

"Lord..."

The feeling of the smoke trickling down your throat and into your lungs was harsh; coarse, even, like it was a solid rather than a gas. That combined with the putrid smell made the whole event a nightmare, and you were left thinking how you did this so often in your youth. But you didn't want to give up and have Gerard waste a whole joint after you'd been so confident, so you were between a rock and a hard place.

As you prepared to force yourself to take a drag again, Gerard interjected with a simple question.

"Want some help?"

"Huh? Help?" You tilted your head, blinking away the tiny pricks of tears. "How?"

Gerard scratched his nape, tucking his own joint and the lighter into his jean pocket, "Ever heard of shotgunning?"

You nearly broke out into a fit of coughs again. Did he seriously just ask that? What was the point in doing so?

"I... have."

"... Have you done it before?"

"Once. With my ex in college," You paused, then added. "During my first ever time smoking weed."

"Did it help?"

You hesitated a little before saying the next part. But in the end, you admitted, "Immensely."

Gerard smiled, "Want to try it again?"

That question nearly ruined you. The way he said it was entirely normal and awfully casual, but it was because it was Gerard saying it that drove you insane.

"Yes." You breathed before you could stop yourself, before you could have some decorum and wait a while to not show how desperate you were for this.

Gerard, however, he didn't make fun, he just peeled himself off the wall and gently took the joint from you. While your back was still pressed, he stood in front of you with his arm raised and hand beside your head. 

Using his other hand, Gerard took a drag while maintaining eye contact. With the smoke held inside his mouth, he began leaning in, and you allowed your jaw to relax for easy access.

Your mouths met, and he fully transferred the smoke into you. It was still bad, it still made your mouth dryer than the hottest desert and it still tasted horrible but you could deal with it because Gerard's lips were on you and they were soft enough to distract from all the bad.

He leaned away, and you slowly inhaled, only choking a little once everything was out. As you struggled through this, he took some of the joint for himself and was much more cool about it.

"How was that?"

"Easy."

Gerard didn't say anything more, but the insinuation was there. The silent ask of "want to do it again?" communicated purely through his gaze. And to that, you nodded, and he got the idea.

Just like the first time, Gerard first took in a generous amount of mouth then started drifting closer for the exchange. The only difference this time was how your bodies were so much closer, fully pressing up against one another and he was cupping your face. The closeness nearly made you pass out, but you steeled yourself and opened your mouth for him.

There was much more content this time, you almost struggled to fit it all in your mouth but you managed, and Gerard broke apart to take some as well so you could blow it out together.

You were starting to feel the effects now, and it seemed like it was the same case for him. Both of your limbs were sluggish, and you found yourself depending on the wall a lot more to keep upright while Gerard depended on you, one step away from fully leaning on you.

And as the effects got more potent, not another word was spoken between you two as your lips found each other once more— this time, without the preface of marijuana.

Your arms draped around his shoulders as he held your face with both palms, simultaneously mashing your bodies as close as they could humanly get while Frenching. Just like how you hadn't smoked weed since college, your life also hadn't been this spontaneous nor this exciting, either. Doing a joint with a rockstar? Now, that was pure fiction.

Or it would be if Gerard wasn't trying to swallow you whole; sloppily dragging his tongue across your lips and giving it a little bite, tugging on your bottom lip before shoving it all back into your mouth. You groaned and pulled his hair a little, which in turn, forced a moan out of him which sounded guttural because he was tongue deep inside your mouth.

Gerard suddenly pulled away, and you whined at the sudden lack of touch, briefly wondering why he did this before the answer presented itself in front of you in the form of him intending to shotgun again. You relaxed, smiling, petting his head as you would to a dog while Gerard readied himself.

While the other two times were fairly slow and even careful, this was just purely fuelled on desperation to touch you again. Gerard wasted no time, he mashed his mouth onto yours in a way that was almost painful as you collided. Smoke filled your lungs, you coughed because it was so sudden and sputtered while releasing it into the room which was increasingly starting to smell entirely of marijuana.

Gerard slurred, "Sorry." And gave you a peck on the cheek.

" 's okay." You reassured before you were on him again, in critical need of wanting his tongue shoved down your throat.

As you Frenched, you moved your knee and raised it to slowly knead his crotch, catching Gerard completely off guard. For a guy who dressed so edgy, he sure made a lot of noises which teetered on being pathetic. He whimpered, even freezing in place at times while making out because the friction was becoming unbearably good.

His pants were painfully tight, and his hardness apparent through them despite them being black. Eventually, your knee wasn't enough and he shoved it out of the way to grind his erection against your crotch, simulating the motions of sex as he rolled his hips into your clothed pussy.

Both of you were messy, halfway to being fully high, saliva and spit trickling down your chins, and dry humping like your lives depended on it. 

cw: age gap, frankie is 43 and reader is 19

You came in like a breeze, or perhaps a gust of wind because you were absolutely bustling with energy. 

Introductions were exchanged, handshakes were made, small conversations were started—stuff regarding your schooling, your life, how you came about to playing the drums, and your interests.

"Well, I'm in the midst of a gap year, so no post-secondary for me yet." You answered, your smile simply unfaltering. 

" 'Yet'?" Gerard questioned. "So, you still plan to go?"

You nodded, "Yeah, I mean... there's plenty of great art schools and music schools and stuff, so... I think I'm good, but I'm no master and I always feel like there's something valuable to learn! Also, education is important."

"That's quite admirable. Good on you." Ray patted you on the back like a dad would, Mikey did the same.

Frank couldn't get himself to do that, he couldn't even get himself to talk to you much even though you kept glancing over at him as if to silently wish he could. The whole ordeal broke his heart a little and he hoped that you didn't take this as him not liking you or thinking some weird, stupid thing like you didn't "deserve" to be a part of the band yet.

It wasn't like that at all. It was just because he was battling his own demons, so to speak.

That was exactly what it was.

From the moment you walked in—no, from the moment he saw you online, playing the drums with as much fervor as a seasoned veteran, he felt things no respectable man his age should feel about someone as young as you. It started with simple admiration; Frank wasn't blind, he could see that you were extremely beautiful and immensely talented to boot, but it should have ended there. The acknowledgement of your good looks and nothing more.

Frank sucked in his breath, squashing whatever dark thoughts his mind was concocting and forced a smile onto his face. If he just treated you with normalcy, then maybe he could trick himself to stop thinking like this.

Nineteen-years-old, Frank. She's nineteen.

"... I wanted to ask, actually," you said after the first part of this conversation which Frank didn't hear. "Why did you guys pick me specifically? I bet there's so many other great drummers out there... not that I'm not grateful or anything! This is a dream come true—more than that. I seriously cannot express how much this means to me, I was just... curious, is all."

Goodness, you were so bashful. All of that confidence and exuberance was a little mellower after this question. Your cheeks the slightest bit red, your eyes cast the slightest bit downwards at your feet. 

The band looked at each other before ultimately turning to Frank. Why? Because he was the one who chose you.

Frank knew this. You also knew this since it was his team that sent the initial email. This query was undoubtedly only aimed at him, just disguised as otherwise—was this a ploy you set out to get him to talk? What a clever girl you were if that was the case.

Left without a choice, Frank tried his best to be normal and give a normal answer, "Well, I've been keeping an eye on your covers for a while."

"Yeah!" You said loudly, which was sudden after you had been so coy. Those stars were back to lighting up your eyes. "The morning I woke up to the notification of you following me on Instagram... gosh, I was almost late for work, I was so shocked and in awe!"

You were so blatant about your adoration of them, and of him specifically. You talked about the laughably simple act of Frank taking no more than three seconds out of his day to follow you back on a social media platform as if it were as grand as the ocean and beyond that.

Nineteen-years-old, Frank. She's nineteen.

She's nineteen and you're basically like a god to her.

Frank cleared his throat, averting his gaze as he continued in an uncharacteristically quiet manner, "You certainly played beautifully, like a prodigy, so I thought, 'man, it'd be great to have her on' but we already had a guy on drums, so that was that until... well, you know the rest."

"That's so uncanny..." you marvelled, hands together. "It really puts things into perspective and makes you think. If I hadn't made that account, then I wouldn't be here right now."

"I know, right?" Frank managed.

Thankfully, Gerard broke up this moment with the clearing of his throat and all eyes were on him, "Before rehearsals, I want to see you play just so we can get a grasp of things."

"I agree, it's easier this way." Mikey added. 

You were oh-so enthusiastic as you jumped to your feet, smiling ear-to-ear, "Of course! Which song should I do?"

Gerard thought for a moment before turning to Frank, "How about you choose?"

"Me?" Frank pointed at himself. It was probably odd because there was no reason for him to be this shocked by such a simple request, but he complied nonetheless after Gerard gave him the assurance. 

Thinking for a moment, Frank could feel your gaze boring into his very existence, peering at his soul, even. That made him nervous for some reason, and he felt like a damn fool for having that feeling because he was way too grown to be getting borderline flustered over you merely staring at him.

Thus, he just blurted, "Fashion Statement."

A sound came from you, somewhere between a squeak and a yelp of pure and utter elation. 

"That's one of my favorites!" You exclaimed as you waltzed over to the drum kit with a skip in your step.

Even though this specific set was new to you, you just blended right in with the snare, toms, bass, and cymbals. You brought your own drumsticks, they were both personalized and worn. Personalized from all the stickers that had been slapped onto the handle and base as well as the white residue of stickers that had either been taken off or naturally faded from use. And they were worn because of all the scratch marks, as well as the fact that the tips had a slightly black discolouration to them. Frank swore that the wood was peeling a little, too.

It was probably best to replace them, they looked like they were begging for death, anyway, but he knew the feeling of getting overly attached to your instruments far too well.

The band gathered like a panel of judges, Frank a step or two back from everyone else, to watch. Surprisingly, you showed no anxiousness over this, you even seemed to have a newly ignited flame over being observed this way.

Your confidence was attractive—admirable.

Frank rubbed his temples, Admirable. Jesus, Frank.

"Tell me any criticisms or feedback, please." You prefaced before starting.

The sounds you produced were fine-tuned to utter perfection. Years of playing his songs, their songs; meticulously studying them as though they were law like he did with all of the greats in his time. Those were all probably ancient to you, right? Their vinyls and CDs probably under the "vintage" section at shops now.

You probably had hundreds of pages of notations, or maybe they were all digital because people your age tend to be tech savvy like that. Frank still liked the classics, AKA good-old-fashioned papyrus. He couldn't stand having to look at a screen for a prolonged amount of time, especially not when he was trying to shred the guitar, but that was probably an age thing, too. 

Everything was an "age thing" because that's just how it was and it's what made sense. More than two decades were in between your birthday and his. At twenty-five, his career was already at its high; he was older than you right now when you were born. 

You played like you were meant to be in the band.

Frank wished you could have been here since the beginning. 

Because if you were, then this would have been different and he wouldn't have to feel so (rightfully) guilty for having these feelings about you.

Safe to say, though, you were more than magnificent and he was thoroughly impressed by you. They all were. Gerard even mentioned, "To be honest, we were all quite nervous since our drummer had to leave so suddenly, and when there's only a few more months 'til Seattle, but I think it's safe to say that those fears have been quelled. Right?" He looked around for approval, which Ray and Mikey gave via a quick thumbs up and nod respectively.

Frank didn't say anything because he was distracted. Still.

The image of you playing was stuck, replaying in his mind. It was factual what people said—performances truly do feel different when you're there to experience them firsthand. Because in person, Frank could pick up on the details that were lost in translation through a digital lens. Moreover, it was so much more candid. The little changes in expression you made, how you would scrunch your nose when it got to a particularly difficult part.

Frank was a firm believer that the way one plays their weapon of choice (musical instrument) is a good insight into how passionate they are about it because it's impossible to care when you don't. Simple as that. If someone looked like they'd rather be anywhere but there, in that moment, playing whatever they were playing, then that was a pretty good indicator that they couldn't give less of a shit about their instrument and double that for how they played as long as it was "adequate", or worse, as long as it got them somewhere.

And whether that was in the skirt of the prettiest girl or under a record label with a million dollar contract—either way, it was shitty.

Passion was a refreshing thing to witness. So damn refreshing.

Frank felt the need to say something. He had to say something because you looked like you were begging for his approval.

"You're amazing." Was all he could muster. 

You seemed happy with it, though, so all's well that ends well, right?

Frank desperately needed a serious self-reevaluation. 

Practice went as smoothly as one could imagine. The now five of you played through a couple of songs, mostly from The Black Parade since that was the namesake of this whole tour. You couldn't get through all of it or even half because that's just ridiculous, but a good chunk was covered, he'd say.

By the end of it, they were all sweaty and panting; Gerard in particular, as it always was considering he was their very eccentric vocalist and all. Frank felt a sense of relatability whenever he saw the man chug down what had to be a couple of cups of water in one go since he was a vocalist, too. Sometimes.

During this tour, though, he'd get more time on the mic, so that was always good.

This made him wonder, how were your pipes?

Frank sneakily glanced at you, and he immediately felt both immense regret and relief in doing so; because on one hand, you were looking beautiful as ever with your forehead slightly slick and head tilted upwards while you fanned yourself but on the other hand, you were looking beautiful.

Get your mind out of the gutter. Frank chastised himself as though he were a horny fifteen-year-old and not a man in his forties who should know better.

Frank should have known so much better and thought so much better when you took off your jacket from the heat—curse this practice room and its busted AC system as well as the always sweltering L.A. weather this time of year—which exposed your tank top underneath. It was grey and thin enough that he could see your bra underneath, which was a cute light pink. 

He should know better, and he should stop thinking this way because any normal man his age would look at this and turn away out of respect or not think anything at all. Looking around, only he was the one making a big deal out of this; Gerard and Ray were talking business about certain parts that needed to be smoothed out, and Mikey was on idly his phone. 

To be fair, though, they were all happily married—now he was making excuses for himself.

Frank bit the inside of his mouth, digging his canines into the soft flesh hard enough for it to hurt. 

Your tank top had a graphic on it. The logo of a band. Nirvana. A classic. An absolute classic.

Frank cleared his throat, there was only one way to go about this and that was to be normal until he could trick his brain into actually thinking so. He had two points of conversation - the Nirvana shirt you were wearing and also if you could sing. 

So, he stood from the little black stool he was sitting atop and waltzed over to you as casually as possible.

The moment you saw him approach, your eyes went wide and you ended up spilling the water you were drinking onto yourself. A disaster right off the bat.

"Damn!" You exclaimed, looking down at the large, dark stain this accident had caused. 

You were probably fretting about many things—including, but not limited to; the state of your shirt, making a fool out of yourself in front of Frank, the coldness of the water, etcetera. Frank? He was thinking about both how the water made your shirt even more see-through and about how your chest glistened while wet.

"I'm sorry," You uttered, fanning out your shirt by flapping the collar around as one would to let some air in during the heat. "This is such a mess, geez..."

Frank felt the need to say something, so he just reassured while tearing his eyes off your body and onto the floor which was riddled with small puddles by your feet, "Nah, don't sweat it. It's just water."

That at least made you look a little less panicked, "Again, sorry, though."

"It's my fault for scaring you."

"No way! I should have been more careful!"

Frank couldn't win.

And that statement had two meanings in this situation.

With a sigh kept internal so as to not worry you in thinking it was directed towards you, Frank simply blurted to defuse the situation, "I noticed that your shirt, it's uh, it's Nirvana. What's your favorite song by them?"

Again, this made you feel better. A lot better. It was like anything he said, you took it with grace and it instantly brightened your mood. Frank had to be careful to not let that get to his head.

"Oh! Um... well, there're so many but I've always loved Polly. Though, I'm inclined to pick something from In Utero since that's my favorite album out of their, well, three."

"Hey, we're only one number above that. Brevity is best, don't you think?"

"Yeah, totally! I didn't mean it like that, I just meant that it would be a treat to have more, y'know? But then again, ending it before things could get dull is good, too," You paused. "Though, Nirvana didn't really have a choice in this matter..."

Frank steered the conversation another way before it could get dark, "Side thing—can you sing?"

This seemed to catch you off guard just a little, but you still answered in an earnest, albeit slightly diffident, manner, "I... do. It's sorta inevitable when you're in a band or wanting to be in a band or just playing instruments like me. Of course, I've been to karaoke and concerts where I can belt out all of my favorite songs, but onstage? No, I haven't."

You suddenly went red, "That's not at all what you asked, is it? Um, the simple answer should have been yes, I can sing and I do sing."

Now, this was a development. This sort of sheepishness, this tripping over your words, this nervousness. The redness of your face was cute, and so was this newfound demeanour of yours.

"Hey, don't get all fidgety on me, will you? I don't bite. You're good."

"Mhm..."

You were biting your lip ever so slightly, which was dangerous in of itself but made lethal with the combination of your whole shirt debacle.

Frank's only distraction was discussion, and even that was failing him. Still, he continued the best he could, "What other bands and artists do you like?"

Your eyes lit up in the truest definition of that statement and you immediately went on a rant despite apologizing to him for doing so moments prior. Naturally, Frank didn't mind at all in the least bit.

"Well, let's see, where do I begin... love the Ramones. Hole, Sex Pistols, Adolescents, Black Flag, The Dead Milkmen—if we're talking more your guy's era and genre, then I'm always down for some Paramore and Evanescence! Completely different scene, but Radiohead and Jeff Buckley are nice, too, when you want to wallow."

Your taste in music, your wit, and the way you giggled in excitement over everything. Frank felt himself feel more at ease the more you spoke, as though he were being sucked into your comforting passion. 

"... But if we were to come down to it. My ultimate, ultimate favorite is you guys, of course."

"Of course." He repeated, and you gave him a sort of shy smile where your head was tilted slightly downwards to avert his gaze.

Frank just couldn't get a read on you. On one hand, your energy was utterly palpable and if he was honest? Sorely needed. They all still had passion, yes, exuberant amounts of it, in fact but what was the truth was that they'd been in the industry for a long time. A fresh new face might have been the exact missing link the band was looking for and perhaps, it would make them better in the end. But on the other hand... he was able to see a completely new side to you when it was just the two of you alone.

Was it just because of the status he held in your existence? Frank would be tripping over his words, too, if he met one of his idols. That was probably all this was. It was just his deviant mind cooking up fake scenarios otherwise.

Frank's eyes scanned you, all of you. From the top of your head to your shoes. Every part of you was just gorgeous, alluring in every sense of the word and not just in physicality. It was cheesy to harp on about someone's personality as though the world doesn't revolve around looks and most of the people who did so were disingenuous but Frank swore up and down, on his life and his mother's that the way you behaved made you all the more attractive.

Music taste was a big thing; how you liked all the same shit he did was a wonder. The main aspect, though, was how you played the drums. 

You played like your life was on the line. Just like he did with his precious guitar. Just like they all did.

Again, it was like you were meant to be here all along. 

"Hey, what are you two gossiping about like a bunch of teenagers? Well, I suppose one of you is an actual teen. What excuse do you have, Frank?"

Ray had popped his head in out of nowhere with a quick quip that meant absolutely nothing. Just some innocent teasing which was painfully commonplace amongst the group. You giggled at this lighthearted comment, fully able to look him in the eyes unlike how you were with Frank. Then, you began engaging in conversation about other things such as how you did during the rehearsal and if there were some pointers he could give; completely moving past the insignificant remark because, well, it meant nothing.

Meanwhile, Frank was being undone. Because to him, it was everything. 

The reality hit him like a gunshot. No matter how "old" your soul may have seemed, no matter what this connection was between the two of you, if there even was any, you were just so young. Not an actual teenager, no, Frank wasn't that deranged, but young regardless. Nineteen still had 'teen", and he was a man in his forties.

Some men might look at this situation and think it was a score. After all, how many girls this beautiful, with this much vigor and a bright future ahead of them would be interested in an old geezer when boys their age were so much more attractive and could give them so much more? Very few is the answer. Some men would snatch up this opportunity by the horns and ride off into the sunset without a second thought. 

Frank wasn't "some men", or he really didn't want to be.

But he was, and he couldn't stop himself from feeling this way, which was more than dangerous. 

No action was taken, still. Not yet, anyway. 

And he wouldn't take action.

Looking at you now, Frank saw your youth, it was all he could see. Those eyes which were lost on his body years ago, and skin so free of wrinkles it was hard to imagine you with them when you would eventually grow old.

When you would grow old... Jesus, he'd probably be rolling in his coffin by the time you were a little over his age. 

Frank felt like he was being suffocated by nothing other than his own guilt and turmoil. It was manifesting, coiling around his neck and would drag him down to the deepest depths of hell where he probably belonged.

Your shirt was still wet, it hadn't dried. Frank stared.

He definitely belonged in hell.

Not wanting to prolong this horror, Frank wordlessly got up and he felt your eyes tail him as he did. It took him every ounce of willpower he still had left in his body to do this, but he turned away and began briskly walking to the door, but not without grabbing his pack of cigarettes that had been tossed onto the table beside it. 

"Where are you off to, Frank?" Mikey asked him.

Frank lifted the hand which had the box of cigs, "Need a breather." He responded, which was ironic considering he was holding a bunch of cancer sticks.

They bought it, and you didn't have an objection or at least you couldn't voice it so Frank opened the door and the rest was history. Without looking back, he hurriedly went to leave the confines of this building.

"I swear you're gonna wear that thing to death, Gerard." You laughed the moment he walked in wearing the shirt you made him once again.

It was August now; warm, sunny August where some days were significantly chillier than others, an indication for the upcoming fall, which you were quite excited for in ways which mostly pertained to the band.

Okay, maybe all that you were looking forward to was band related but you couldn't help it!

Everyone had so much more time on their hands since it was summer and you all mutually agreed to either not take summer classes or take very few to really hone in on this time as much as possible. You, Grace, and James were home free while Chase and Maggie still attended. As for those outside of the band; Frank had none, too, so he was over quite frequently during rehearsals. Way too frequently, actually. To the point where sometimes, you thought he spent more time with you guys than with his own crew, but that was neither here nor there. You loved his company regardless.

Gerard, on the other hand, was a semi-functioning adult with a real, adult internship he couldn't fumble so he was mostly busy with that but on his off days, he'd always make an effort to swing by.

Over the course of the three month break thus far, Gerard came to rehearsals a total of twelve times. And of those twelve drop-ins, Gerard wore the shirt you made on ten instances. 

You only had fifteen rehearsals over this ninety-two day period. This was the sixteenth, so, now his count went to thirteen for total visits and eleven for times that shirt was worn. His dedication to your band was admirable, or maybe it was more flattering. Either way, you couldn't express enough how much him being there meant, even if he was just a supporter.

The band seemed to like him, too. Though, they teased him about his age quite often despite Gerard only being two years everyone's senior. Grace in particular; oh, she loved to tease.

At the very first official meeting between all of you, she asked, "Are you guys dating?" So boldly it caught you off guard. Denials were met on both ends, but she still snuck in comments here and there. Harmless things, of course, mostly just her rambling about how good you guys would look together or how she thought it was "so cute" you made a shirt for him and that he loved it so much he wore it everywhere. 

Harmless, but repetitive and annoying. That was just who she was, though.

In any case, Gerard was here and to your earlier statement he simply stated, "I really love it."

"Please tell me you wash it at least."

"Flip it inside out first. Use cold water. Air dry." Gerard recited as though it were law.

You gave him a deliberately slow clap, "Wow, look at you. Memorized already."

"It's kind of inevitable since I wear it so damn much." He chuckled, starting to get a little bashful.

Speaking of "bashfulness", though, in came someone who was anything but that in the form of Frank Iero. Boisterous as ever, he plopped his guitar down on the floor and gave Gerard a little fist bump before making his way over to you. 

"Here again, Frank?" Chase clicked his tongue, jokingly giving him a look of disapproval.

"Aye, sir." Frank saluted.

"Yo, don't the guys at Pencey miss you? When's the last time you guys had a rehearsal?"

"That, my good friend, is none of your business."

Chase just rolled his eyes and went back to polishing his bass—which, he had to be the only person in the band to actually put this much effort into the cleanliness of his instrument.

You just giggled because of their conversation, "What's new with Mercy?" Frank asked as he joined your little spot on the floor.

In front of you were a bunch of papers. Now, these things were more precious than every monetary item in that room combined due to their sheer, unique value. These were the lyrics to all of the songs made for the album. 

Frank sifted through them, already knowing what they were, "Eleven, huh? Pretty exciting."

"We want twelve," you said immediately. "But this last one... god, it's like every functioning brain cell died off while making the others. None of us can seem to generate ideas and we just keep drawing blanks! It's unbelievably frustrating." Your head was buried in your hands, pencil clutched so tight your hand was turning white.

"I can see that..." Frank noted, his eyes trailing from the trashcan which was filled so far to the brim with crumpled up pieces of paper that it was overflowing.

You hadn't even noticed that Gerard sat next to you as well, on the side which Frank didn't occupy. He scanned the eleven pages for a moment before picking one up, "This one's my favorite."

Lifting your head, you glanced at the choice and gave him a look, "Really?"

Gerard nodded, earnest in all the right ways, "Why, don't you like it?"

"It's not that I don't like it... it's just... hm. I don't know," you took the paper from him and began skimming through the lyrics. "It was one of our first and the only one on the album written entirely by only me without the help of the guys."

"So, shouldn't that fill you with a sense of pride?"

You laughed, dry but still appreciative, "It should, right? But I can't help but feel it's unworthy."

That's when Frank joined in, personally offended, "Hey! 'Unworthy' is way harsh. You've always been like that, ever since high school. Remember when you wrote that essay for the teacher who was infamous for marking like a god damn university prof?"

"Yeah, I do... Mr. Niel, right?"

"Mr. Niel," Frank repeated, nodding his head. "Anyway. That guy. The highest score he gave out anyone was a ninety-five, and for all the average plebeians, the average was like..."

"Mid seventies to low eighties." Maggie chimed in, who apparently had been listening the whole time.

Frank snapped his fingers at her, "Right! And need I remind you what you got from that grade-grim-reaper's class?"

You knew where he was going with this, you knew since the moment he mentioned Mr. Niel's godforsaken name. Never did you think you would hear that again, especially not here in this setting but here Frank was, digging up old graves to prove a point.

"C'mon... what did you get?" Frank nudged you, and he kept on nudging you with his elbow until you finally relented.

"Ninety-eight!"

Your bandmates just snorted to themselves or gave you faux congratulations while Frank was just completely opposite in cheering you on as though you'd just won gold in the Olympics. It was hell on both ends and the only neutral party was Gerard for obvious reasons. The whole time, he was just sitting idly by next to you, simply listening.

"Anyway, my reason for saying this is just to remind you that you're fucking talented so don't feel ashamed, alright? I read over this about a hundred times and I could do it a hundred more, it was so good. Better than whatever I've written."

"Okay, let's not go that far. We're both good. That can be the compromise." You extended your arm for a handshake, which Frank gladly obliged.

Now that was over with, you just leaned back into the wall you were already in front of and took in the entirety of the album, which was laid out in written form before your feet. You would never admit this, afraid of sounding pretentious, but you thought you had something incredibly solid in your hands. Sure, the one thing which was your utterly solo work still felt perpetually unpolished, but that was just subjective to yourself, you supposed. Everything else, though?

You couldn't help but smile to yourself as you read each title while compiling it back into order. Every word, every phrase, every late night conversation and tiny smidge of inspiration from all corners of the earth. 

Maybe... it was okay to think that this was special. 

"Hey, you gonna reminisce or are you gonna join us?" Grace shouted, and when you looked up, you saw that everyone had assumed their positions while you were still sitting on your ass.

When she saw that you noticed, that pretend scowl was wiped right off as she just burst out in giggles, "C'mon, let's show these guys a show they'll never forget."

"Again." James added.

"Again," Grace agreed, looking between Gerard and Frank. "But you don't mind, do you, gentlemen?"

Frank proclaimed, "Nope!" While Gerard politely shook his head.

You took your spot in the middle where the mic stand was. Renting out a genuine practice room every time just wasn't feasible on your budgets, so around seventy percent of the practices were allocated to garages. Currently, you were in yours. Location didn't really matter, though, all you needed were your instruments and your voice and that was practice enough.

But of course, it was nice to have amps and speakers and stuff...

Whatever the case, Grace counted you guys in and the first song began. Today's practice was just to perfect some of the more difficult songs since all of you kept fibbing up during three specific ones, so it was time to hone and hone until it was sparkly.

Having an audience was nice; though, Frank and Gerard both made everything a lot harder and a lot easier at the same time.

It was easy because you knew them, especially Frank who was incredibly vocal in his enthusiasm as he was with everything he was passionate about in life. Gerard, on the other hand... well, of course he was insanely polite; not cordial, as you two had long gone past that stage in your friendship, but so nice that he often spewed out rows and rows of everything he loved about whatever he just witnessed. Frank, too.

You supposed the only way it was "hard" was when Gerard stared at you.

Ever since that moment during your first ever show, back when your footing in this scene was so unstable you thought you'd just twist your ankle and fall—Gerard was there. How enamored he was, you could never forget that. And one would think that initial excitement, that first spark would die down after a while. It was natural, of course to have the novelty of a thing die down as one witnesses it countless times. 

Not to Gerard, though. His sincerity was always just that. Sincere.

Like you were the best thing he'd ever laid his eyes on. 

You swore he looked at you more than he did the band.

In front of you was your first ever fan and your number one fan. 

🦇

Frank was at a record store when he realized how close this shop was to the restaurant you worked at. He was in the middle of picking up the latest Slipknot release when it dawned on him that this street looked familiar for a reason.

It was a Thursday afternoon, quarter past seven at night which meant you were working. 

Swiftly, Frank skirted past the people clogging up the aisle he was in and went to the register to check out so he could get the most of the remainder of your shift. 

When the cashier—who looked way too young to be working anywhere—rang the CD up and told him it was a staggering fifteen bucks, Frank had to write a mental apology to his wallet before forking over the dough.

"Thanks, man!" Frank said as he scurried out the door.

September was coming yet it was still pretty hot. Not scorching, thank god, but still hot enough for his outfits to only consist of a t-shirt and jeans on most days with maybe a jacket in the evenings. Frank kept looking the CD over as he walked, always a little too giddy when it came to things like this. He heard the bustle of people and felt them brush past him in the narrow streets as he peeled the plastic wrapping off and marvelled at the shiny casing as well as the album cover.

"Sick." He murmured to himself with a small whistle. 

Can't wait to see what she thinks of it.

Frank arrived at the restaurant, which was quite small and tucked away but still boisterously alive. This time of day was usually when things got busiest, and he could see that about eighty percent of the tables had been filled up so he should hurry.

Except, he saw you through the large windows at the entrance and he couldn't help but stop and stare.

The waitress uniforms were vintage; actually, that was the theme of the whole joint. Vintage. Sixties. A soft yellow, collared dress that had large white accents around the hem and neck with a skirt that flared out and a half-hexagonal apron on top. You even had one of those goofy, tiny, paper hat looking things on top of your head! It was truly like being teleported four decades prior.

You were currently taking the order of a rather large group, a whole family of eight who were only sat together via the power of smushing two smaller tables together to combine into one big one. Despite this, and despite the crying baby in the highchair whom Frank could hear through the glass, you were so composed and even served them with a smile. 

That's how you always were, though. An honest-to-god trouper.

Frank could tell you were tired, even while several feet away he knew. That slight falter in your step when you had to go from one end of the restaurant to the other, the way you paused before carrying out a heavier order, how slowly you walked, and how that smile faded when you thought no one was looking.

But he was looking. 

You looked so pretty, he could just stand there forevermore and he'd be content. 

However, if he did that, he'd undoubtedly be labelled a stalker and also, he'd probably unnerve all the normal guests by just standing at the window. Also, the whole reason he wanted to come here was to talk to you, so he just went in and the ringing of the little chimes attached to the door immediately caught your attention.

Perhaps this was just his bias making him delusional, but Frank swore that smile you wore got genuine when you saw him. His proof? It reached your eyes.

"Frank!" You exclaimed as you rushed over, he smiled and gave you a little wave. "You are the last person I expected to walk through those doors. What are you doing all the way out here?"

With a smug look, Frank revealed the CD, "Latest Slipknot."

Your eyes were blown wide as you gently grabbed it from his hand and began examining, "Holy shit! You got your hands on it already? Jesus, how much was it?"

"Fifteen flat..." he said through his teeth.

You sucked in your breath, "Ouch," You murmured, giving this pained expression as though you were punched. "Worth it, though, right?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"Can I give it a listen when my shift's over?"

"You kidding? We are gonna experience this glory firsthand together."

That made you give him a hug, the kind that was quick but still firm as you rubbed his back a little while bringing him in, "You're the best. If i'm gonna be honest, I've had quite the shift today."

"Tell me about it later?"

"Obviously."

You pulled away, tucking some hair behind your ear and readjusting your stupid hat to make it sit straight again. It was only then when you realized you'd been loitering for way too long and how it was a miracle that your manager or another server hadn't yelled at you yet to get a move on, so you quickly led him to a booth sat in the back, by the bathrooms.

As he sat down and started to get comfortable, you pulled out a tiny notebook and pen from your apron and prompted, "What can I get you?"

"Just a coffee."

"You sure?"

"Not too hungry."

You shrugged, not even jotting it down since it was so simple, "Well, your piping hot coffee will be out in just a moment, then." 

"Take your time."

You tucked the notebook back and gave him a wave before going back into the jaws of actually doing your job. Frank set the CD down on the table in front of him and he watched you rush around.

Although you were a waitress, you were qualified to do other simple tasks such as drink-making and pouring. Your last job was a barista, so the coffee machines were like second nature to you and Frank just rested his cheek against his palm as he watched you make his coffee.

The skirt flowed with practically every moment because it was so flared, and the thin parts of fabric which held your apron in place which was tied into a pretty bow danced along with it whenever you took even a step. Frank liked you in anything, but something like this was both a rare sight and a beautiful one. The restaurant only got more packed and at least four other girls were wearing what you were wearing, doing what you were doing, walking like you were walking—yet they all seemed so obsolete. To his eyes, it was only you and you were making his coffee.

You came back moments later with a clean white mug that was absolutely piping.

"Your coffee, sir." You said jokingly while carefully placing it by his hand.

Frank took it immediately, blowing on it so as to not burn his tongue off, "You're getting better at this."

"Well, I would hope so considering how long I've been working here."

He shrugged while taking a sip. To be honest, it was still too hot but you lingering here meant you wanted his feedback on the drink and Frank figured he could bear the inside of his mouth getting slightly scorched to give that to you.

Intentionally smacking his mouth loudly, he leaned back and assumed a pose that consisted of his arms being crossed while one arm was extended to stroke his chin. You rolled your eyes heavily at this, tapping your foot at him in a manner that was equally intentionally loud.

Frank finally spoke, "Well... the coffee beans are nice and toasted, giving it a sort of rich flavor that you wouldn't find at most places. So, I give it a ten."

You actually lit up as though his dumb opinion were that of a genuine food critic's, "A ten? Really? Last few times you gave it a nine!"

"Signifier of your improvements."

"I really appreciate you playing along with me like this, Frank. It means a lot. And the fact that you visited me even more so," you got sincere all of a sudden, and Frank felt the need to immediately drop his goofy act. "I can't wait 'til I'm off to listen to that with you. Wait for me, alright?"

"I'll always wait for you."

Again, you left, and this time, it would be the last time of the night until the end of your shift and Frank would just be left with the view of your back or side profile. The coffee was prolonged as long as it could, even to the point where it was long past the point of being lukewarm and was straight up starting to get a little cold just so he could stay there longer. No one seemed to notice, though, even, because of where he was.

Some would call this spot "shitty", but Frank thought it was fantastic. He always had an affinity for the "hidden" booth spots in any restaurant, he loved 'em, and he loved that you remembered that about him.

Frank smiled to himself.

Your shift went on for another three hours until you were finally able to clock out at ten. By that point, his coffee was long drained and he was now just patiently waiting for you to get changed.

The spot he sat at was not only right next to the bathroom, but also the staff only door so he could see you in full the moment you stepped out. You might have looked cute in the uniform, but Frank liked you in anything as even this outfit, which was just a sweater and long skirt, was charming to him.

"Ready?" You asked while slinging your bag over your shoulder.

"As I'll ever be." Frank finally stood, the first time since he'd sat down so he stretched a bit before joining you in walking out.

You said your goodbyes to the staff, who cheerfully did so back. How quickly you'd grown friendly with everyone, it was commendable since Frank assumed that most people who worked in upstate New York were a bunch of squares.

But that was just his problem, he guessed.

Either way, you were out now. Free at last! And you were enjoying the night breeze quite significantly, even opening your arms and allowing the wind to completely hit you.

"You're quite happy." Frank giggled.

"I told you. Today drained me."

"May I inquire what was oh-so wrong?"

You sighed, putting your arms back at your side and looking incredibly annoyed already, "This group of like... college douches came in, immediately making a ruckus as they did. There were like seven of 'em and they were all wearing either sweatshirts from whatever institution they intended or merch of the sports team they were a part of. Frat dudes."

Frank shivered, "My worst fucking nightmare."

"You and me both," you hissed. "Anyway, I don't like to judge a book by its cover so I thought, 'hey, maybe I'm the asshole here' so I obviously approached them with friendliness as I would to any other customer—."

"—Which you're a saint for." He quickly added.

"But I guess the stereotypes are always true because the moment I went to take their order... God. It was just nonstop creepy comments and hooting and hollering. They did this for every waitress, mind you."

"Holy, what a bunch of lowlives."

"That's not even the worst part!" You exclaimed so loudly and so passionately that some passerby gave you a look. "You know what those fucking jock assholes did? They started to rate all the girls on a scale from one-to-ten. Loudly. For everyone to hear!"

Frank's jaw dropped, "Are you serious?"

"As cancer! They would go in depth about how 'she would be a seven, but her arms are too big' or 'she's definitely a six, look at that waist'. So degrading and so demeaning, I could hardly control my temper."

"Please tell me you gave them a piece of your mind."

"Jesus, I wish, but I already had an incident from two weeks ago of a similar set of obnoxious dude-bros, so I couldn't unless I wanted to get fired and I really need this job, so..."

"You phased them out?"

"Barely."

Frank patted you on the back as your shoulders slumped a little. He noticed that you kept pulling up your bag as it constantly slipped a little past your shoulder blade, he wondered why this was so he just asked, "You good? What's in that bag?"

"Oh." You stopped for a moment and opened it for him to see; inside were a shit ton of books. We're talking eight, maybe nine of them stuffed in there.

"Damn! Are you trying to start a local library? Why so many books?"

"Maggie's birthday is coming up and you know how she has an egregious reading list and I knew that a bookstore nearby was doing a major sale today, so I went and got a little crazy. But all of this—nine books— was only for twenty! Can you believe it?"

"Only five dollars off from my CD..."

"I know, right? Crazy how the world works and how money works." You said, then closed your bag back up and slung it over your shoulder once more.

Frank just sighed and reached over to grab it from you to carry it instead. Before you could start complaining, he started walking briskly ahead and you had no choice but to jog after him as you noisily voiced your complaints.

"You don't need to do that! Hey, give me it back, I can carry it just fine!"

"Just keep on walking. If I do this, we can get to the station faster."

"Frank—"

"You nagging me isn't gonna change things so let's have a different conversation, yeah?"

You were unhappy with this arrangement, and that was clear from the furrowed brows which were so knitted together that Frank snorted, but that still wouldn't change his mind and you of all people knew of his unyielding stubbornness, so you conceded and let him have it.

He was right, though. The walk did significantly get faster now that he was carrying your bag. Sure, his shoulder had begun to hurt a little since nine books jam-packed into one bag was nothing to sneeze at, but again, like the burning coffee, he could bear it.

And like he'd suggested, you came up with a different point to talk about, "I'm excited to listen to the new record. I bet it'll be one of the best releases of two-thousand-one."

"Now that's a controversial opinion. What makes you say that when this year's been so full of music greats?"

"Slipknot never disappoints," you said firmly. "They're not my favorite, but they're consistent and their last one was something else so I have confidence that this one will be as good if not better."

"We still have four more months left of the year, though, and September's basically just around the corner so I wouldn't count on it just yet."

That made your jaw drop slightly, or it was more like your lips parting at the slight shock, "Geez, now that you mention it... September is only in a few days, huh?"

"Why're you so gobsmacked at that?"

"You and your hyperboles..." you chastised quickly. "I'm not gobsmacked, just a little... I dunno. It just puts everything into perspective."

"How so?"

"September is that weird time of year for me where it's purely transitional. Nothing much happens in it and there are no major holidays or even birthdays of anyone I know, but there's still so much to it. For one, fall classes. For two, fall itself. For three, it'll only be three more months until the end of the year! Plus, the band has so much planned..."

"Alright, I get it. I was just being a little insensitive there, but you're right about these things. Especially about the band. You're playing a show soon, right?"

"First week of September!" You answered gleefully.

"And guess who'll be there."

You elbowed him, "A certain asshole with shitty blond hair and douchey tattoos?"

"Hey... is that any way to talk to the guy holding your shit?" Frank teased, then he noticed that you were walking by an open storm drain.

Getting a wicked idea, he went over and held your bag over it, "So, who's the asshole with shitty blond hair and a douchey neck tattoo?"

"Frank! Okay, okay, fine, you're not an asshole and your hair isn't shitty and your tattoos aren't douchey!"

Frank hummed, still waving your bag over the drain, "What else?"

" 'What else'?" You questioned, but Frank kept dangling your precious bag so you just spouted. "Fine! Your tattoos are cool as hell, and I've always thought that ever since you got it and I wish I had the balls to get one myself and... I like your hair a lot. The fact that the dye job kind of sucks is charming and it looks cute on you."

Whatever confidence he was hashing out before completely malfunctioned. Frank took a big step back from the drain pipe and allowed his outstretched arm to fall by his side. What he expected from you was a few words about his guitar and some faulty comments about his appearance, but this was all... oddly personal? You might have said he looks nice or good multiple times but you never outright called him "cute". Or if you did, it was so rare and so long ago that neither of you could remember.

Speaking of, you were red like him and just huffed, averting his gaze while walking right past him.

"Come on. Don't wanna miss the train, do you?" 

Frank snapped out of the daze, hung the bag back over his shoulder and coughed a quick "yeah" as he followed.

In the scene your band was in, the playing at dusty old venues was frequent, the fights occurring in the mosh pit even more so, but your run-ins with My Chem were unnaturally frequent. Like, at almost every show, kind of frequent.

Every time you went up for a set, they would follow right after. Every time they went up for a set, your band was laying in wait to go the second after their time was over. It was odd, but not terrible. Especially since they ended up being quite kind and interesting, which was the bare minimum but in these parts? "Bare minimum" was the equivalent to running to the ends of the earth for someone.

Hence, the situation right now.

Your band and MCR, just chilling in the backyard of your bassist since it was by far the most spacious out of anyone there. There was beer, there was cigarettes, and there was pizza (or there was). 

Everyone was either on rainbow colored lawn chairs or sitting on the lightly damp grass. It was rather chilly, but the sheer energy of the whole function kept the coldness to a minimum. No one was excluded, all people present had something to add to the conversation, a joke, a light quip— this was by far the most successful meet up yet and you could see a close friendship forming in the horizon, even closer than the bond you already share.

... Which meant that anyone could be the subject of a joke. Some harmless teasing between friends. Nothing devastating.

One member in particular, this guy named Frank, had shitty box-dyed surfer blond hair that contrasted with his very punk makeshift mohawk. His roots were clearly showing and starting to outgrow this, a sign of how shitty the job was. He was the most daring out of all of them; besides the unnatural mop atop his head, he also had some tats - including this one which was admittedly, very annoyingly hot since it was a sick looking scorpion that was etched into the skin of neck so high not even the most elevated of collars could possibly cover it.

Studded black earrings on his lobes, a nose ring hooked onto his left nostril, and a lip ring pulling at the right corner of his lip.

You had to admit, again, that he was hot.

His personality matched his looks, too, because boy, was he irritating.

Especially to you. What was his deal?

When he saw you coughing after taking a drag of your cigarette, he loudly started cackling to himself. You wanted to ignore it, but he was so obnoxious about it that you fell for his trap hook, line and sinker.

"What?" You questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Frank shrugged— how irritating— as he took an intentionally slow inhale of his own smoke, "Didn't know you still got choked up. Like a baby."

You were more mature than this. Or you should have been but god damn it, his tone and demeanour was the perfect whirlwind of all things annoying to force you to fall hook, line, and sinker for his antics and force a charged retort out of you.

"I saw you choking on your beer earlier. Does that mean you're a newb, too?"

For a second there, you thought you got him because he shut up for once in his life, but Frank just shrugged again, this one somehow more annoying than the last as he nonchalantly replied, "That wasn't even anything. The stuff dribbled down my chin and went into my shirt so I gasped 'cause it was cold as balls. You, however. I thought you'd suffocate to death, you were so loud! My comment came from a genuine place of worry."

Frank, with his lit cigarette weaved between his index and middle fingers, placed his hand atop his heart and did an incredibly scuffed making the Sign of the Cross. All you could think about, however, was how badly you wished that tiny flame would just set fire to his tight, women's sized shirt, but alas, no such luck.

"Whatever, just—" You tried to diffuse, but Frank interjected.

"Unless... can you prove it to me otherwise?"

You hated how that piqued your interest, "What the hell do you mean?"

"Dunno..." He said, despite clearly knowing from that mischievous glint in his eyes. "A classic bout of competition? Let's see who can hold in their smoke for the longest."

There was a more mature and adult-like way of handling this...

To hell with that! 

Back up and what? Allow yourself to be bested? Not here, not now, and certainly not by Frank Iero. You wanted to wipe the floor with him, knock that smirk clean off his face.

So, you agreed and the loudness of this whole exchange made this little match everyone's business. The whole thing was comically dramatic, with the chairs being arranged so that you two would be facing one another directly while the rest stood around in a messy circle to watch as though this were an epic match between two gladiators in the Colosseum during ancient Rome and not a bout between two, half-drunk idiots to see who could jerk off their ego the most.

Your pre-lit cigs were put out on the heavily used ashtray and your new ones would be set aflame by your respective guitarists for theatrics purposes.

You and Frank sat parallel to each other, nearly interlocking knees with how close in proximity you were. Then, a countdown began— "three... two... one!" they shouted like it was New Years.

Both of you took hefty drags from the way your stomachs literally went concave and your chests puffed up. Directly after, your mouths sealed shut and your cheeks were bloated.

It was hell. First of all, it was hot; hot enough to burn for a second. What came after that was somehow worse, though, because as the temperature faded, it took all the moisture from your mouth and throat with it since you were left feeling like the Sahara. Worst yet, your throat was frickin' scratchy. Like, the clawing sensation you would get while in the midst of falling victim to a cold. It made you want to cough so bad that tears formed from the edges of your eyes.

Frank was in rough shape, too, which brought you relief. He teared up before you and was currently shaking his head, his hands firmly on his knees as he couldn't even look at you.

There wasn't much for feeling cocky as now, your tastebuds were being viscously assaulted with the sickening taste of tobacco. This stuff was cheap— God knew that none of you could afford Malboro or Benson and Hedges— all you needed and wanted was that quick relief of toxic smog filling your lungs, so you got what you could get. Which meant absolute bitterness in taste. Which was okay when the smoke would be in your mouth for no more than a second, but in a competition like this? Hell.

As much as you would rather die than give Frank a shred of a boost to his already inflated confidence, you genuinely felt like there would be serious health consequences if you kept this up. A hole being burned through your esophagus, your throat somehow getting clogged up with all this exhaust— whatever it could be, you couldn't risk it since your career literally relied on your voice.

But right as you were about to tap out, a loud, visceral fit of hacks and coughs came from just in front of you.

You felt saliva fly onto your hand but you weren't disgusted. You were elated because that meant...

"Shit!"

Frank's face was red, tomato red and drooling as faint tears could still be seen hugging his waterline. You eventually burst, too, but your reaction was much more different. 

Instead of distress, you pumped your fists into the air and exclaimed, "In your face!" Before also bursting into unpleasant sounding wheezes.

Both of you were suffering physically, but internally, Frank was in dismay while you were on cloud none. Besting Frank after he'd been so cocky? Amazing. Besting him at his own game on top of all of that? Fucking fantastic. Marvellous, even.

And thus, a series of "friendly" competitions began.

Whenever there was even a minute of downtime between you two, you just couldn't resist the urge to engage in some sort of contest. This would range from boardgames with complex rules like classic Monopoly or hell, even Apples to Apples, you were so bored, to simply skipping a rock across a river like you were children. Guitar Hero, Jenga, kickball, Uno, hide and seek, even tag— nothing was off the table.

The tally was as follows: six wins under Frank's belt, and an astounding ten under yours.

Safe to say, you were near consistently kicking his ass and it was getting under his skin just a tiny bit.

Okay, a lot. 

Especially since as these went on, you got more confidence to be an absolute ass about it; making Frank get a taste of his own medicine, even making him wonder "was I this bad?"

But he was an adult and at the end of the day, this was all meant to be in good fun, right? No hard feelings. Just all good fun.

Frank was having a horrible day.

He barely got any sleep, which was horrible in of itself, but fate decided to be especially cruel that day because he messed up during a performance.

They were performing Our Lady of Sorrows— a fan favorite— and during the end part, where he would normally be shredding, he missed a chord. That made him do a double take and completely stop playing for well over five seconds as his brain just short-circuited or something, which just threw the whole song off. Ray's fingers jerked around from the surprise of no longer having a stable rhythm to back him up, Gerard fudged up the lyrics because of the guitars getting all janky, and Mikey was the only one who remained composed throughout the whole thing.

The crowd was not merciful about it, either. That last verse was the best in the whole song, and the part where the crowd got the rowdiest so the fact that he messed it up meant loud complaints and jeers being thrown his way.

Frank didn't let words get to him; if he did, then he'd probably be wallowing in his own insecurities because of the things he'd been called while dressed in skinny jeans and girl's shirts in a relatively small town. But this wasn't a jab towards his looks or his personality, it was a jab towards his guitar.

And it got to him. Even though it was slight, he was still wholly peeved. 

The one saving grace was that the guys didn't blame him, saying it happens and that it wasn't the end of the world. They even took him out to a party after to cheer him up. 

Frank wanted to refuse, but he didn't for some reason. Normally, he'd like this sort of thing because parties and ragers were basically a weekly occurrence for them, but not today. Instead of mingling and socializing, he decided to go out to the shed in the backyard all by his lonesome and solemnly sip some kind of alcohol concoction poured into one of those one-time-use red cups.

Somehow, though, you found him because of course you did and of course you'd be at the same function as he was.

"What're you doing out here all by yourself?" You asked, but it clearly didn't come from a place of worry with that tone of voice.

Frank honestly didn't have the energy to deal with you, so he kept his answers short, "Just feeling it."

"What, did you get rejected by a girl or something?"

"What?" He immediately snapped.

You feigned innocence, "I don't see why else you'd be here sulking."

"I'm not 'sulking'."

You gestured to the cup, as well as the shed he was leaning against, and the entirety of the backyard which only had two people in it— you and him. 

"Just leave me the hell alone."

"Why're you so rude to me, Frankie? Is it 'cause I keep kicking your sorry ass at every game we play?"

Oh, you were so good at irking him. You'd gotten even better at it ever since you met and these little bets picked up steam. It was entertaining when you bantered, but horribly pestersome otherwise.

Don't even get him started on that godforsaken nickname, too. 

"Frankie". One might have seen it as playful, he just saw it as a nuisance to be referred to in such a way.

Yes, he was being dramatic because he was pissy, so what?

You continued to toy with him, though, even trailing your finger down his shoulder in a way that was almost flirtatious, "There's an ongoing game of beer pong inside..." You got in close and whispered. "Wanna take a crack at it?"

You backed away, hands behind your back and smiling like the devil himself.

"Fine." Frank agreed begrudgingly.

His reasoning? Maybe he'd feel better if he could crush you. Sure, he'd been on a devastating losing streak, but his adrenaline made him confident in believing that he could best you in this one and what Frank wanted more than anything was an outlet to let his anger out on, so away he went.

You grabbed his wrist and guided him inside, leading the way. 

Back facing him, Frank could see your thong strings poking out above your low-cut jeans. It was the latest fashion, he'd seen dozens of girls flounce around with this sort of thing and he found it incredibly hot to see. This was your first time wearing something as bold as this, or at least Frank's first time seeing you in this getup.

It was hot, he had to admit. You'd become aggravating, but you were hot and there was a natural sway to your hips as you walked. Frank swore that one wrong tug would just expose your bare ass to the world because he doubted that skimpy, hot pink thong would cover anything.

No time to think about that, however, as you finally arrived at the destination - a long foldable table with two sets of five cups arranged in a triangle format on either end, a neon orange ping pong ball resting in the middle. Some people were around, namely Ray and your guitarists who greeted you two.

Frank forced a smile as he took his place on one end while you drifted to the other.

"Ready to be pummelled?" You asked, smirking while you gripped the edges of the table.

"Just shut up and play."

You went first because of course you did and by some ungodly miracle, it went in.

Of course, you had to be obnoxious about it, "Holy shit, I'm a frickin' prodigy!"

Frank grumbled as he took his punishment. The beer was good, at least. It was sweet.

During his turn, the ball just bounced right off the edge of the table and rolled away, much to your entertainment. You missed, too, but it wasn't as drastic as Frank's sorry attempt. He missed again, and it was back to you.

You were taking this way too seriously, going so far as to bend down like this was an intense game of pool and actual money was on the line. Since Frank was standing in front of you, just a few feet away, he could see your entire back as it laid flat, hovering above your cups. 

That thong was so visible, so erotic. Your ass curved so nicely, too in those tight ass jeans.

"Yes!"

Whatever he was thinking was cut short when you somehow, against everything good in this world, got another in. Effectively making the score two for you, none for him. 

Zero. Zip. Nada.

"Oh, drink up, Frankie! Drink it the hell up."

Frank did so. You cooed.

The grip he had on the cup tightened, making the plastic bend under his crushing fingers.

Frank flubbed the next shot.

"Holy hell, you suck!"

His blood pressure was rising. 

After you went and failed, he finally got one in but he didn't have the energy to rub it in your face. Of course, you took notice of this and slyly asked before chugging your beer, "Too scared for taunting, hm? Is it because you know I'll win?"

What possessed you to behave this way today of all days? You were always taunting him, but never was it as visceral as in this moment. It wasn't only the things you said— though your comments were easily driving him up the wall— it was also your tone. So high-pitched, so patronizing.

It made him wonder how good it would feel to put you in your place.

Not by beating you at some stupid game, by really sticking it to you.

Frank imagined dragging you away to an empty bedroom or even a bathroom, to throw onto the ground or against a surface. Believe it or not, Frank liked being soft during sex and he was actually quite the gentle lover; that didn't mean he couldn't behave otherwise, though. And a girl like you didn't deserve sweetness or lovemaking, you deserved to be fucked. 

Harsh and brutal, with your legs draped over his shoulders as he went inside you, as deep as he could go while you screamed. The only thing that would be coming out of your mouth were either cries or the whorish moaning of his name. 

Frank's eyes flickered up, you were bending down again as though this dumb game was so serious. This time, he fixated on your chest. Your breasts were visible in that flimsy little tank top you'd dawned on yourself and he saw the lacy bra you wore underneath, matching vibrant colors with your thong. It would be so easy to just rip them both off your body while he ruined you thoroughly. Mascara running, drool pooling, tears sliding—

You got another one in.

Four-to-one.

"Hey, Frankie, are you even trying?" 

What were you, a taunting video game character?

Couldn't you just shut the hell up?

"Not gonna answer me?" You went on, either not knowing when to stop or not having the tact to chill out. Frank didn't know which was worse.

That fourth beer was hitting, though. These cups were filled to the brim, they were practically overflowing. Instead of the alcohol mellowing him out, though, it just made everything so much worse. It was making his face uncomfortably hot, making his throat thorny from the carbonation, and making his ego be whittled down to nothing because he was only forcing these down his hole because of you.

All of this was your fault.

Frank didn't even care anymore. He was so ticked off that he just threw the ping pong ball all willy nilly and it got in on a whim. 

Four-to-two. 

Yeah, it was hopeless.

Few turns later, Frank was barely clinging onto his sanity. His mind was a cesspool of two very different emotions and urges— being royally pissed off and also wanting to dick you down.

He didn't know how much more of this he could take, especially when you would inevitably win because the universe adored you while it despised him for some reason. 

Then, he watched the ping pong ball bounce across the table, its trajectory perfect and set to dunk into his final cup to officially declare you the winner of this whole moronic situation. Frank saw your eyes lighting up, mouth opening to a wide smile as though you were locked and loaded with the perfect response after beating him yet again.

Even thinking about it was making him so mad his fists were clenching.

Frank wouldn't have it. Being at his wit's end, he just shoved the table forward, making the ball wobble then eventually roll off as the beer spilled over.

You were utterly appalled, way too appalled for something like this. 

"Hey! What the actual hell?! What are you—"

Frank didn't know what drove him to do it, but he just strode over to you and forced you away from the scene, yanking you off and snaking through the crowd like they were blades of grass in a field. You tried to fight him and go free while yelling all sorts of obscenities, but ended up getting hauled into a spare room neither of you even knew existed until this moment.

Miraculously, it wasn't occupied by a drunk couple having sex or sloppily making out so Frank considered it his.

He slammed you against the door, which he locked without you even noticing.

Of course, you jumped at the chance to run your mouth off at him, still infuriated, "You! I can't believe you! Did the thought of losing again make you that mad? I can't believe you would sabotage the game like some kind of loser! What happened to sportsmanship?" You complained endlessly, your whole argument ironic considering your behavior for the past twenty minutes.

"Jesus, will you just shut up?" He snapped.

Surprisingly, you stopped your incessant babbling.

The peace and quiet was nice, really nice since your voice was starting to sound like nails on a chalkboard.

Frank stared at your lips, they were shiny and glittery from lip gloss. Then his eyes peaked down your shirt. You noticed this.

"You're acting weird." You said, quiet, trying not to blush because you suddenly realized how strangely intimate this whole situation was.

Frank was so close to you, practically touching foreheads and you swore he was drifting closer, little by little... no, he definitely was getting closer. The door you were shoved against now felt like a piece of life support as you pressed your back against it as far as it could go. This was odd. Strange. Frank being like this, staring at you like this, his hand crawling up your thigh like this—

"Frankie—"

Your lips were captured, Frank grabbed the base of your jaw and swirled his tongue inside your mouth which had been in the midst of saying his name, granting easy access. It was hot, literally, his breath was hot and heavy as he kept going up for air before repeatedly diving right back in. His lip ring felt cold against your gasping lips.

Also, it was hot in... another way.

Frank held you so possessively, so desperately, his free hand tugging at your clothes and groping all over your body, particularly fixating on your hips which you began grinding into him as you wrapped your arms around his neck and brought him closer. You could feel his erection against your inner thigh. However, Frank just forced you to stay still as now both of his hands were firmly around your waist, pinning it against the door.

You whined in protest, to which he just groaned, "Shut the hell up." in response.

Finally, he pulled apart and your lips felt a little swollen because at certain times, you didn't know if he was trying to eat you alive or make out. 

You wiped his saliva from around your mouth, "What was that?" You panted. "Is that why you were so off today? You just couldn't wait to get your hands all over me?"

"You just don't know when to quit, do you?"

No, you didn't. And that would be your undoing, which could be a good or bad thing depending on how you looked at it.

"Whatever do you mean, Frankie?" 

That would be the last time you would call him that. Frank grabbed you again, with more fervor than the first time. You were brought to the bed and slammed onto the mattress, which creaked under the force of the impact. Frank wasted no time, he stripped off his shirt and started fumbling around with his belt to get those worn baggy jeans off as quick as possible. It was common courtesy to undress while your partner did so, but you decided to just lay there, still and smirking.

Frank noticed this as he pulled his pants completely off and you whistled when you saw his black briefs.

"Are you waiting for me to strip you?"

"Hm... dunno."

Frank's hand lurched out at you, firmly constricting your throat as he pushed you into the bed. This somehow wasn't enough to wipe your smirk off your face, you just stared at him, challenging as ever even though you were clearly faltering from the lack of air flowing into your lungs.

You were completely at his mercy, but you were still acting like a brat.

Frank grabbed the string of your exposed thong, pulling it far before letting it go, laughing as the elastic snapped against your hip bone with a loud crack and you yelped like a dog getting its tail stepped on. 

"Bitch!" You hissed.

Frank ignored you and unbuttoned your jeans, tugging them just past your ass to expose your underwear, which could barely even be considered that.

What it was, was just a bunch of strings with a lacy triangular part in the middle. Frank didn't know how the hell you wore something like this, just go commando since it looked like it was barely containing your folds. The one good thing about this was that it was giving him a major hard-on.

Frank started pulling at the strings again, threatening to pull them down, "You just want any guy to fuck you, don't you? Wearing something like this..."

His grip got a little tighter.

"No," You choked, squirming. "No, fuck y—"

"—Or did you wear this specifically for me? Did you want me to fuck you that bad?"

You were about to tell him to eat a dick, but because of that stupid hand of his with its stupid strength, all you got out was a wheeze. Your expression was utterly wiped of that smarmy smirk, now replaced with your mouth agape as your face turned red. 

"Tell me the truth." Frank warned.

Then, he dipped down and whispered so close to your ear you would have giggled if you weren't being suffocated, "Tell me how badly you wanted this to happen."

You couldn't take it anymore, you just nodded and he let your neck go slightly as you sputtered, "I-I wanted you to fuck me. That's why I wore this— shit!"

Frank flipped you around to your stomach before you could even finish your sentence. At least your neck was spared now, and your rubbed it while choking, trying to catch your breath; while you were struggling, he roughly tore your bottoms off, but kept the thong on.

"I knew it," He laughed, and you regretted so badly bending to his will because he just sounded so proud of himself. "You could have just told me from the beginning."

"Eat a dick." You finally let out, voice hoarse but still packing venom.

Frank didn't like that, "Still gonna be like this?"

"Eat. A. Dick."

Frank slapped your ass, hard. It stung like death and left a stinging sensation behind right after. Then, he tugged one of your flimsy little string to the side to expose your pussy, it was practically glistening with how wet it was.

In a gentle motion which starkly contrasted his behavior up until that point, Frank started massaging you, in between your folds, against your clit. Three of his fingers were squirming against you, not yet inside but threatening to be.

"Oh..." You moaned, wanting to die at how easily you did so.

Maybe it was because he was a guitarist, but Frank's fingers were unbelievable - better than anyone you had before, by a long shot, but you would take that little tidbit to the grave. When they finally stretched you out, he was so quick and relentless, and the noises were grossly loud. Constant squelching, you were so wet he could go right in at that moment and it'd probably be fine. 

"You hear that?" Frank grunted, making a point to start rapidly swishing his fingers back and forth along your clithood, much to your dismay as you practically shrieked out a moan from pleasure. "So wet, all of this just for me. You're prepping yourself for my cock, you want it that bad, is that right?"

You didn't know why, but you just agreed, "Yeah, that's why..." As though you were brainwashed. How humiliating.

What was even more humiliating, though, was your whimpering. You couldn't help it. Your pussy was being fingered by the devil himself, and he was utterly unforgiving.

"Shit, shit, s-shit, Frankie— Frank. Oh, god, oh, wait, wait!"

You were a babbling mess, he was stretching you out so good and you didn't even have time to catch your breath in between each wave of pleasure his plunging fingers sent through your shivering body. Your thong was utterly soaked with your fluids since Frank was stubborn in leaving it on; making you think that even if you washed it, you probably couldn't wear it again because of the connotations it would have after this event.

With your face buried into the mattress, leaving drool stains embedded in the silk, you arched your back and came all over Frank's fingers with a loud sigh and exasperated scream. 

The orgasm felt like your soul was being sucked right out of your body. Your energy was quickly zapped out and you were left on your stomach, twitching every so often, still feeling the aftershocks of cumming like that. Your pussy was still unbelievably wet, even more so now considering... yeah.

Frank didn't waste this opportunity, roughly grabbing you by the hair, specifically in a way to tug at your scalp for maximum pain, "Don't fall asleep on me yet."

Like you were just luggage or perhaps a dead body if we were being grim, Frank manhandled you to your feet by the hair, heaving you forward until you landed on the floor in front of a full length mirror. There, you were faced with your own mess of a reflection.

Lip gloss smeared, mascara slightly runny, and hair an absolute bird's nest.

You attempted to look away, but Frank forced your chin to face straight ahead. 

"You're gonna look at yourself while I make a mess out of you."

Hiccuping, you just nodded against his hand, your body and brain too tired to fight him on this. Plus, you were getting turned on.

Frank positioned himself so that he was directly behind you, both of you on your knees and able to see yourselves in this poor, poor mirror. His cock, leaking precum and harder than a rock was sliding against your thigh, his hands fumbling around to line it up with your pussy.

Before he could put it in, though, he asked, "Give me a word to stop this."

Your brain was a haze, and honestly, you just wanted him to break you already, but you quietly just answered, "Red."

"Alright, 'red', it is."

Then, Frank harshly grabbed your hips and held you as close as he could as he thrusted himself into you. He must have put on a condom while you were out of it, because the slippery rubber was a distinct feeling in your insides. Not that it mattered, though, since your brain short-circuited for a moment as he penetrated you.

"Oh, Jesus, oh, Frank!" You screamed, tears springing at the corners of your eyes.

It was true what they said about short guys— big things come in small packages.

And in Frank's case, you could feel his cock all the way in your throat, it was so big. You were sure that if you looked down, your stomach would be bulging slightly from it. 

His pace here was the same as his fingering, ruthless and relentless. You didn't know how he did it, how Frank could consistently ram his hips against your ass over and over again, with as much vigor as all the times before it. Unmistakably lewd sounds of skin slapping filled the room, so did the pungent smell of sex, the taste of sweat, and the feeling of your eyes stinging from the mascara and eyeshadow leaking into them as you sobbed.

"Look at yourself, look at how much of a mess you've become. Where are your big words now? Where's all the teasing? huh?" Frank hissed, holding your jaw and making your cheeks dig into your teeth. Averting gaze was deemed impossible.

"I can't, I can't, I can't, Frank, I-I feel like you're breaking me." You whimpered through sobs even though that had nothing to do with what he was talking about.

"You can and you will." Frank delivered a particularly harsh slamming of his hips. Your eyes blew wide as you lost strength in your body completely for a moment from how dizzyingly brutal it was.

Frank's arm possessively snaked around your waist and he pressed his lips into the crook of your neck, both breathing in your scent and leaving a trail of wet, sloppy kisses around. It was purposeful the way he etched hickeys into your skin; dark purples and pinks in places that were an absolute bitch to cover up. Take that.

God, but pettiness aside, your pussy was squeezing him like a damn boa constrictor. Frank couldn't get enough, he couldn't stop moving, he couldn't stop ramming himself into you savagely, 

"Frank! Frank!"

The fantasies were becoming a reality. Putting you in your place until the only things coming from those lips were his name and his name only.

Frank's movements sputtered, he was going even faster than normal one second then the next, he was a trembling mess who was so god damn close to the best orgasm of his sorry life. 

Finally, he looked you directly in the eyes, your wrecked state— eyes rolling to the back of your head, hickeys covering your neck, his own handprint still visible as well— and used that to finish inside the condom. Frank shot absolute ropes; he was sure even though he'd seen none of it. That was just how satisfying putting you down like this was. 

Frank pulled out. The second he let you go, you collapsed to the floor in a heap of your own tiredness.