He gives good headcanon.

Cupid's Chokehold - Mix by heartsdesire456

matchbox_bones — Wed, 05 Sep 2012 18:32:43 GMT

1. Knockin' on Heaven's Door- Bob Dylan

2. Lonely- McFly

3. Runnin'- Adam Lambert

4. In The Shadows- The Rasmus

5. Falls On Me- Fuel

6. Love & Death- Tokio Hotel

7. Only One- Yellowcard

8. Coming Home- Elliot Minor

9. Heaven Is Wrapped In Chains- Cinema Bizarre

10.All Roads Lead Home- Golden State

11.Scared To Death- H.I.M.

12.All The Small Things- Blink 182

Can I just start off by saying the mixer titled the mix "Home?" ;________;

And then used cream of mushroom soup for the tracklist? ;___________;

My heart. ;_______________________;

This was really awesome. I loved how it fit into the fic! There were a bunch of songs that I've never heard before. I especially loved Only One and Scared to Death.

I just got really, really lucky to have such an awesome mixer and artist for my first BBB. ;___________;

{Art}
{Masterpost}
{Fic}

Cupid's Chokehold - Art by josiemus_prime

matchbox_bones — Wed, 05 Sep 2012 17:55:17 GMT

When I found out that Josie was going to be doing art for my fic, I squealed. I'm a little bit in love with her art and I was so, so excited to see what she'd come up with.

I just--UUUUGGGGHHHHH--it's so cute. FRANK WITH HIS RED AND WHITE SUIT. AND RAY WITH HIS SHIRT AND THE DESK AND THE FLUFFY CLOUDS. EVERYTHING IS SO CUTE AND PERFECT. I love all the little details, like Frank's hand tattoos, and the hearts following Frank as he falls, the writing on Ray's shirt, and the cloud-chair. CAN I MENTION FRANK'S SUIT AGAIN? SO CUTE.

AND WHEN I THOUGHT IT COULDN'T GET ANY BETTER, SHE DREW THIS SCENE:

This is one of my favorite scenes in the fic and it's actually one of the scenes that underwent the least amount of changes. THE COLORS, THEIR FACES, THE COMPOSITION. FRANK'S TATTOOS. It just feels so sweet, and quiet, and heartfelt, and JUST YES. *________________*

I'm literally so lucky it hurts. <3___________________________<3

{Fanmix}
{Masterpost}
{Fic}

matchbox_bones — Fri, 20 Jul 2012 00:59:20 GMT

So I was able to get my BBB fic to 10k! It's still unfinished, though, with several scenes to be written (they are currently in not!fic form) and lots of editing to be done. The only problem is that now that I'm there and it looks like I could actually participate in the writing portion of BBB, I hate everything I've written, and I don't want everyone else to secretly hate what I've written, so I haven't sent it in to the mods yet. D:

I think I'm probably just being paranoid, or something. >____<

matchbox_bones — Thu, 31 May 2012 02:21:31 GMT

It would be super awesome if someone could maybe kick me or something until I work on my BBB fic. >____<

I've completed art for one summary and I've been working on another, but I've barely written anything on my draft in, like, the past two months and that makes me sad, because finishing it for BBB is a goal I set for myself and considering the rate at which I am currently writing on it I'm afraid I won't make it. :c

In the Dark

matchbox_bones — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 18:16:33 GMT

Title: In the Dark (Alternately Titled: That One Time Megan's Friend Requested a Cute, Self-Conscious Chubby!Frank Fic and Instead She Tried to Write Porn for the First Time About a Chubby!Frank with Body Issues) (also here on AO3)
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,566
Warnings: Poorly written explicit sex and extremely slight body dysmorphia issues.
Disclaimer: This is in no way real. If it was real the sex would probably be a lot better.
Summary: The problem wasn’t that Gerard was stupid; the problem was that he wasn’t always the most observant guy around. Sometimes he just misses things that maybe he should have noticed. He hadn’t thought anything of it the first time Frank had pushed his hands out from under his shirt and said, “I’d rather touch you.”

A/N: This is basically my first attempt at explicit sex, so, uh, don't be mean? D:

The problem wasn’t that Gerard was stupid; the problem was that he wasn’t always the most observant guy around. Sometimes he just misses things that maybe he should have noticed. He hadn’t thought anything of it the first time Frank had pushed his hands out from under his shirt and said, “I’d rather touch you.”

Gerard had been a little preoccupied with Frank’s tongue on his dick, and his tattooed fingers inching past the waistband at the back of his jeans to wonder if there was any ulterior motive. He hadn’t had any reason to think otherwise.

He hadn’t thought any of it the times following that either, like when Gerard had been giving him a hand job and Frank had pulled away the hand gripping the flesh on his hip, grasping Gerard’s fingers tightly in his own and murmuring, “Gee, please, need to come.”

Frank had left his clothes on the first time they had sex, too, but Gerard was so frantic with the need to be touched, to be fucked, to feel Frank against him and inside him that he’d thought Frank just didn’t want to waste time to shuck his shirt and pants. He’d certainly acted like it and, honestly, Gerard had been so overwhelmed with the weight of Frank heavy on top of him, the scratch of his beard against his neck, the feel of the rough denim against his thighs that he couldn’t really think past how good, and right, and fucking perfect it all felt.

He didn’t notice that Frank was always either partially clothed, or how the lights were always too low to actually see anything. Frank had once said he didn’t want Gerard to see what he was doing; he wanted Gerard to feel it, and Gerard had lost his train of thought when Frank’s hand had slipped up his shirt and pressed against the soft skin of his rib cage.

The only reason he’d thought about it at all was because he and Frank had been watching some shitty ass horror movie set on a remote island when Frank had sighed and said, “Fuck, I haven’t been to the beach in forever.”

Gerard had immediately suggested taking a weekend to make a trip to the beach, because shit, what he wouldn’t give to see Frank shirtless, skin hot from the sun and dripping salty ocean water onto the towels they would lay in the sand. He could already imagine rubbing against Frank, the grit of the sand uncomfortable and almost painful with the friction, but being unable to care because of the way he reacted whenever Frank touched him.

But Frank had laughed, not moving his eyes from the scene taking place onscreen where a bikini-clad girl was gushing blood from her neck, and said, “No one wants to see that.”

And, fuck, Gerard had been so fucking confused, like, what the hell? Who wouldn’t want to see that? He’d never seen Frank shirtless and this would the perfect opportunity—and then he was horrified to realize that he’d never actually seen Frank shirtless.

They’d been dating for well over six months, fucking for almost as long, and he’d really never seen Frank shirtless.

It made him start thinking about how, if he really thought about it, he’d never seen Frank totally naked. At least not with the lights on anyway. He wouldn’t let them shower together. He’d get dressed while Gerard was still asleep, or when he was in another room.

How the fuck had he not noticed that?

He’d laughed with Frank, though, toeing Frank’s thigh and saying, “I’d want to see that.”

Frank had just sent a self-deprecating smile in the direction of the TV. “I don’t even want to see that.”

~*~*~

The plan was to get Frank so riled up he wouldn’t be able to think about pulling Gerard away from his chub. Gerard bides his time until one of Leathermouth’s show nights. Frank is always really fucking turned on after his shows, slamming Gerard against the brick wall behind the venue and jerking him off hard and tight, covering his mouth to muffle his moans.

Gerard watches Frank scream and writhe around on the floor, a bruise already forming under his eye from where he launched himself into the crowd earlier. Sweat is showing through both layers—both layers, what the fuck—and Gerard wants to throw his clothes on the floor, cool him off with his tongue and lick the sweat pooling at the bottom of his spine.

He can just tell from the way Frank’s throwing himself hard against the stage that tonight’s going to be a good one, especially when Frank starts clawing at his chest during the chorus. To most people it’s just another part of the show, but Gerard knows from experience that he gets off on quick, light touches to his nipples.

After the show he slams Frank against the wall in the men’s restroom, barely remembering the shut the lock before going down on him despite Frank’s hands initially scrambling for the button on Gerard’s jeans.

“Nope, not tonight,” he says, hand gripping the base of Frank’s dick, “tonight’s all about you.”

His hands are everywhere after that, scratching at his hips and thighs, pinching his nipples through his shirt, rippling his fingers around his dick where his mouth can’t reach. He licks, and sucks, and Frank’s gasping out, “gonna come, Gee,” a lot sooner than he’d really wanted.

Gerard swallows without a word of complaint, sitting back on his heels and palming his erection. Frank kneels in front of him, kissing away the drops of his come on the corner of Gee’s mouth before going to return the favor, but Gerard shakes his head, eyes closed as he says, “Not now. I want to wait until we’re home.”

~*~*~

There’s a rush to pack up all of Leathermouth’s gear when they exit the bathroom and then they’re saying their goodbyes to the guys and in the van on the way to Frank’s tiny house. They aren’t inside even five minutes before Gee’s pushing him against the door, already panting like he’s a run a fucking mile. He squeezes Frank’s dick through his jeans and Frank’s eyes roll to the back of his head from the want.

But then Gerard’s breath is hot and damp against his cheek, next to his ear, and he’s gasping, “Take it off. Everything. All of it. Off.”

Frank freezes up instantly, because the lights are still on and he’s stupidly self-conscious about his body when it comes to Gerard. He’s avoided being naked in direct light for a while, like a shitty-ass weight-based creature of the night, because Jesus fucking Christ he really likes Gerard and he doesn’t want his stupid flabby stomach and chubby thighs and shit to turn Gerard off.

(Man, like what the fuck, he thinks almost sadly, when did he turn into a fucking pussy about his weight?)

“Sure; let me get the lights.” He says, turning to the switch behind him.

Gerard makes a high pitched, keening sound like he’s in pain, and suddenly he’s pressing himself against Frank’s back, murmuring fast and low, “No, I wanna see you, Frankie, please. Lemme see you?”

And, shit, it’s not like Frank can say no to that, no fucking way. So he swallows hard and says, “Gee, I—yeah. Okay. Fine,” and Gerard reaches down, grabbing the hems of both of his shirts and ripping them over his head.

The shirts get caught on his chin and ears before they come off, of fucking course, and Frank thinks he is probably too old to get embarrassed about such things.

Once they’re off, though, Gerard just kind of steps back and stares for what feels like forever but is most likely only a few seconds, eyes roaming all over Frank’s exposed torso. The staring is making Frank nervous as fuck, so he scrubs his fingers through his hair; it’s already messed up, because of the whole ripping-his-shirt-off deal, so it’s not like he’s making anything worse. He tells himself not to cover his stomach, where his tattoos have kind of stretched a bit from when he gained all this weight, because it’s not that bad, and he’s definitely too old to cower behind his hands like some shy kid in a locker room.

But maybe Gerard can see it in his eyes, because suddenly he’s tracing Frank’s chest and belly tattoos with his fingers, and then following with his mouth. He’s nibbling and sucking at the pudge next to his belly button when he sighs, “Jesus fucking Christ, Frankie, you’re fucking beautiful.”

He sounds kind of awed and dazed, like Frank is some kind of priceless work of art by some old dead dude whose name he can’t pronounce.

He opens his mouth to say something, but midway through he realizes he wouldn’t know what to say, where to start. Like, “Oh, thanks for not being repulsed by my fat,” or “wow, if I had known you’d like my chubby ass, I totally would have taken my shirt off before now,” or maybe even “are you one of those people who only fucks fat people,” but then it doesn’t matter, because all he can focus on is where Gerard’s mouth is hot and wet and sucking a bruise into the curve of his shoulder.

Frank’s mouth drops open even further as Gerard pinches a nipple and he gasps, arching into the touch.

“Aaahhhh,” is about the extent of his verbal capabilities when Gerard takes the chance to stick his tongue in his open mouth and lick hungrily at his teeth, which should be really fucking disgusting but instead it’s just really hot.

“MmmmFrank,” Gerard moans into his mouth and nips at his bottom lip. “Fuck me, need you to fuck me, Frankie, c’mon.”

And really who is Frank to deny the man his needs?

He kisses him hard and open-mouthed, the sound of it wet and dirty as he pushes Gerard’s jean off his hips and grabs a handful of his ass, digging his fingers in and rolling his hips.

They stumble to the bedroom, shedding the rest of their clothes in the hallway. Frank shoves Gerard to the bed, climbing between his open legs and, shit, he can’t think of anything he enjoys more than being here, like this, with Gerard, and even if there is something better, he isn’t exactly in prime thinking mode.

Gerard’s eyes are glazed over and he’s breathing heavy even though they’ve only really kissed and dry humped since getting to Frank’s house. He’s touching himself the way he always does when he’s waiting for Frank to hurry up and get with the fucking program, the pace steady and just on the side of too rough.

Frank scrabbles for a condom and the bottle of lube in the drawer in his nightstand and he almost laughs thinking that when he bought them months ago, before meeting Gerard after one of his shows, he wasn’t exactly expecting to get a lot of use out them.

With the condom on, fingers slicked and ready, he places a hand on top of Gerard’s bent knee, sliding it up and around the back of his thigh where it meets the curve of his ass.

His fingers trace Gerard’s entrance but he leaves them there, asking, “Ready, Gee?”

“Fuck yeah I’m ready, motherfucker,” Gerard gasps, wriggling around on the bed, and Frank does laugh then, sliding one slick finger in, spreading him open steady but quick. Gerard lifts his hips in short little hitches, pushing back against his movements.

He’s gotten two fingers in and is about to use a third when Gerard slaps his hand away, grabs his dick, and says, “I told you I was ready, motherfucker,” but really breathlessly, so it doesn’t sound as harsh as he was probably intending.

It gets the point across, though, and then the slow stretch and give of Gerard’s body around him is fucking perfect and he lets out a loud moan to mirror the man’s beneath him, because there’s no way he can hold back. He pulls away and then slams back in, fast and determined, and finding Gerard’s prostate a few thrusts in.

He pulls back despite Gerard’s keening protests to hook his legs over his forearms and push them against his chest to change the angle before resuming the pace.

Gerard whimpers like it was torn out of him, thighs tense, toes curling, and yanking at the short hairs on the back of Frank’s neck when his fingers are unable to find purchase elsewhere. “Love the way you feel, Frankie. Love it—love it when you’re on top, heavy and holding me down, so that I can’t—can’t move unless you want me to.”

“Y—yeah?” He says, between thrusts, for lack of anything better to say, but maybe enough to keep Gerard talking.

“Mmmyeah,” Gerard hisses when Frank hits his prostate on a particularly hard thrust, “Love the weight of you on and—fuck—against me, solid and—and just, like, really… really fucking good. Love the feel of it, wanted—wanted to see it, too.”

And, fuck, Frank kind of feels bad about being self-conscious when Gerard was totally into him and liking him like this anyway.

“Jesus, Gee, fucking—fucking love you.” His voice is still hoarse, fucking wrecked from the show and the sound of it sends shivers down Gerard’s spine. Gerard arches his back against the tremors, and the words, pushing up into the weight of Frank on top of him.

The world around them completely disappears; nothing existing except for the tight, hot clutch of Gerard around him, dick sliding slickly against his stomach, sweat dripping onto his chest, and he stupidly thinks that they’ll have to have sex with the lights on from now on, because there’s no fucking way he’s missing out on any more of Gerard’s sex faces.

“Come for me, baby.” Gerard whispers against the shell of Frank’s ear, tightening impossibly more around him, heels digging into the backs of his thighs and rolling his hips hard against the other man’s. He pulls Frank’s earlobe into his mouth before nosing around to the other side and kissing the S//C symbol behind his ear.

Frank can only take so much and when Gerard sucks hard on the scorpion tattoo high on his neck while lightly scratching a nipple with his nail, he comes.

Gerard’s starting to jack himself off, but Frank nudges his hand away and pulls out, maybe a little too soon given Gerard’s hiss of discomfort. He gets his mouth on Gerard’s cock, and his fingers, still fairly slick from earlier, back in Gerard’s ass. It doesn’t take much for him to come after that and soon he’s thrusting hard and coming down Frank’s throat and Frank is just fucking taking it, like he was born to suck dick.

Frank rolls to the bed beside him, breathing hard and licking his lips.

Gerard’s fingers find his in the dark and for once the darkness is only because his eyes are closed.

~*~*~

“Told you I’d want to see that,” Gerard breathes later after they’ve cleaned themselves up, curling up against Frank’s side beneath the covers.

Frank doesn’t answer, but instead kisses him, and he thinks that maybe he wouldn’t mind taking a weekend to go to the beach, as long as Gerard is there with him.

FUCK YOU, WINDOWS AUTO UPDATES.

matchbox_bones — Wed, 21 Mar 2012 05:18:36 GMT

SCREAMS MY COMPUTER RESTARTED TO INSTALL UPDATES WHILE I WAS IN THE SHOWER AND IT DIDN'T AUTO RECOVER MY WORD DOCUMENTS AND BECAUSE I'M AN IDIOT I HADN'T SAVED THEM IN A WHILE AND OMFG THAT'S LIKE 6K OF FIC GONE NEVER TO BE RECLAIMED

Power Outage = Progress?

matchbox_bones — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 18:52:54 GMT

So there was a snow storm where I live on the east coast of the US and our power went out! It's been out since about 7:00pm EST until now (I'm currently at school waiting for class to start). While this is bad, because I can't bathe or anything with no access to water (Oh, God, I feel gross), I was able to use the time to actually write some on my (sort of planned) BBB fic! :D

I mean, I didn't write A LOT, because I had to conserve my laptop battery, but hey! A little progress is better than no progress, right?

The Knitting Kind

matchbox_bones — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 06:05:01 GMT

Title: The Knitting Kind
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,756
Warnings: excessive use of the word "fuck," mentions of Gerard bookmarking "How to Give a Good Blowjob" videos on Youtube, and Frank being sad.
Disclaimer: This is called "fanfiction" for a reason.
Summary: An AU in which Gerard is afraid of knitting needles instead of the regular kind and has the hots for a tiny, tattooed art store employee with a fondness for knitting.

A/N: So this was the first Frank/Gerard fanfic I ever tried to write (O____o) and I never bothered to finish it, so I thought I might as well do it now. I fixed it up and changed a bunch, but you can probably still tell where I came in later to finish it. XD

THE KNITTING KIND

Gerard hates needles.

Specifically, he hates knitting needles.

In fact, Gerard hates knitting needles so much that he would rather use the rotting organs of a dead pig for an art project than attempt to fumble his way through a “pfb” or a “p2tog,” or whatever the fuck that shit was. And, okay, so maybe his hatred wasn’t actually quite that intense (because honestly there’s really no way he’d ever step within twenty feet of rotting pig’s flesh, let alone engage in hands-on work, not even for the sake of his art), but the aftershocks of accidentally impaling himself after tripping on Grandma’s basket of knitting needles and Imperial Purple yarn at the tender age of six had, more or less, left a lasting impression.

The problem was that the amount of gore in his current series couldn’t possibly be accurately represented using one measly tube of Alizarin Crimson, or fuckin’ “Rosso Corsa,” or really any other “shade” of red that looked exactly the same as the one next to it. Because of this fact Gerard was now attempting to locate the paint supplies in the newly remodeled arts and crafts store. He had stumbled upon the yarn section completely by accident. The stock of paint used to reside where the Wall of Yarn now stands, daunting with its towering height and a rainbow’s array of colors.

He remains standing in front of twenty rolls of Manganese Blue, his feet frozen to the floor in shock. Since when had the art supply store had a yarn section at all, let alone one this large?

“Just because you’ve never been in the yarn section doesn’t mean it didn’t exist in the first place, you stupid fuck.” Mikey’s voice comes unbidden and unwanted in his mind.

Gerard purses his lips irritably and directs a glare at the Indigo Tile.

“Hey, can I help you with anything?”

Gerard spins to face the owner of the voice that had spoken. Before him stands a young man: tiny, tattooed, and the type of hot guy that was totally out of Gerard’s league (and therefore totally his type).

Taking Gerard’s silence as a prompt for help, the young man smiles and says, “You look kind of lost.”

“Uhhh, no, I’m really just, you know, browsing.” Gerard avoids eye contact and swallows hard.

“Browsing for anything in particular?”

Gerard chances a slightly nervous look at the employee, who wets his lips and returns the other’s gaze. “Just... just some new, uh, new... knitting needles?”

Knitting needles? Fucking knitting needles? Gerard almost groans aloud in embarrassment. Yeah, knitting needles. Real cool, Gerard. Why don’t you tell him that you write Star Wars fanfiction in your spare time, too. That’ll really get him hot for your dick.

“You like to knit?”

Maybe it's the way the young man says it, delighted, the words tumbling out alongside his crooked grin and mischievous eyes, but a moment later Gerard hears himself stammer, “Uh, yeah, l-love it… ?”

“Dude, knitting’s awesome.”

“Yeah, isn’t it? Most people, uh, think it’s, like, boring or whatever.”

The young man sends him a wide smile. “I’m Frank. I knit, too.”

Oh, of course, he would love to knit. Of fucking course. “Oh, really? Huh. That’s, uh, that’s cool. I’m—I’m Gerard?”

And then fucking “Frank” licks his lips again, tugging his silver lip ring into his mouth for an excruciating half-a-second (although Gerard could have sworn it was at least three, given slow-motion in which he views the hot art store employee’s tongue-to-lip-ring action).

Frank’s mouth is obscene.

“So you said you wanted some new needles?”

Gerard suppresses a shudder at Frank’s question, because generally anything that was sharp, able to cause great amounts of pain, and a word starting with an “n” and ending in “eedles” should really stay the fuck away from him. Given his almost-death-by-Grandma’s-knitting-basket experience, Gerard isn’t too keen on the idea of getting near knitting needles, let alone buying a pair. Yet instead of announcing his phobia to the hot employee, or even at the very least politely declining Frank’s attempt to assist, Gerard awkwardly nods his head and hums in the affirmative.

“Were you looking for any kind in particular? A certain brand? Type?”

“Uh, nope.” Gerard tries to sink deeper into his hoodie. “I was just, you know, like, feeling a new set or whatever.”

“Well, I’m sure I can help you find the set you’re ‘feeling…’”

~*~*~

Forty minutes later Gerard arrives back at his apartment.

When he’d left his home initially, he’d been carrying:
(1) black leather wallet (containing $57.38, three receipts, two ticket stubs, and two condoms: one of which he was pretty sure had been there since his high school Sex Ed. class when the teacher had handed them out),
(1) slightly crushed, half-empty packet of Marlboro cigarettes, and
(2) fine-tipped, black sharpie markers.

When he’d stopped at Starbucks on the way to the art store, he’d acquired:
(1) cup of outrageously overpriced coffee, and
(1) slightly used napkin (on which he had sketched a fucking awesome picture of a vampire tearing some cheerleader’s throat out).

When he’d arrived at the art store, he’d been expecting to return home with:
(1) new bucket of red paint, and
(3) new paintbrushes.

Instead, with the help of an exceptionally hot dude wearing an employee uniform, Gerard had managed to tell some boldfaced lies, get himself into one awkward situation, buy some yarn, and a set of crimson knitting needles (because, really, if he was going to have to own a pair, they might as well match his other art supplies).

No other items had ever been quite so unwelcome in his living space, not even his brother Mikey.

Then Gerard had come to the startling realization that, if he ever wanted to see Frank (or “F’n’stein,” as his nametag had said) ever again, he would need to, “fuckin’ learn how to goddamn knit some shit. Fuck.”

~*~*~

If one desires to learn a new skill on the down low, Youtube videos are the way to go. The site is a (nearly) endless source of information, Gerard discovers, with user tutorials ranging anywhere from “Learn How to Make a Lined Hoodie,” to “How to Give a Good Blowjob.”

He ends up picking a tutorial entitled “How to Knit—the Basics,” which had just over two millions views, and therefore must be of some use. (Although it should be noted that he did bookmark “How to Give a Good Blowjob” for later, because one could always learn new techniques. And who knew? Maybe once he’s charmed and impressed Frank the Hot Employee with his mad knitting skills, he could further woo the young man via his tongue on Frank’s cock.)

Settling against the fluffy cushions of his couch, a hated ball of dark grey yarn and a set of knitting needles resting next to him as his only company, Gerard presses the play button.

~*~*~

“I still have my first, too,” Frank says the next time Gerard visits the art store, about a week and a half later.

“Uh, I’m sorry; your-your first what?”

Frank giggles, the sound almost as cute as the man to whom it belonged. “My first scarf. The first one I ever knit. I still wear it sometimes, too.”

“Oh. Yeah. Hahaha.” Gerard gulps, fiddling with the poorly put-together length of knitted fabric. “Sentimental value, you know?”

“Dude, I totally get that.” Frank pauses, audibly clearing his throat before adding, “So, uh, I go to this knitting group-thing once a week, and I thought you might like to come? You know, ‘cause you like knitting and stuff, too, so…”

An awkward silence follows the statement.

“Or, I mean, I guess that’s pretty lame,” Frank hurries to add after the awkward silence stretched several more seconds, “Never mind. I just thought—”

“No, I’d love to.” Gerard cuts in and then nearly punches himself in the face. In no way, shape, or form would “he love to” go to a knitting group, not even for Frank the Hot Art Store Employee with his charming, crooked smile, mischievous eyes, and goddamned adorable giggle. Knitting that damn piece-of-shit-scarf had taken fucking forever.

How the fuck was he supposed sit in front of Frank and pretend he actually knew what he was doing?

Obviously he wouldn’t be going.

But Frank didn’t know that.

With the appearance of Frank’s answering grin, Gerard’s heart stutters and catches in his throat. “So, um, yeah. I’ll… I guess I’ll just go now. Yeah. Nice, uh, nice seeing you, Frank…”

“Wait! I haven’t even given you the time! Or that address!”

“Oh. Yeah. Um.”

“You got a pen?”

“Y-yeah. Hold a second…” Gerard fishes around in his jacket pocket. A moment later his hand emerges with a fine-tipped Sharpie marker. He stares at the marker for several seconds before handing it over, as though surprised to find it there even though he always made sure to carry several pens in each one of his jackets.

Frank sends him another crooked smile, and damned if Gerard doesn’t feel a little weak in the knees. “Thanks.”

~*~*~

“He’s almost an hour late. He’s not coming.” Frank says with a sigh, needles clicking together rhythmically. “Ten minutes is running slightly behind. Thirty minutes is ‘I forgot what time it started.’ Anyone who’s this late isn’t going to show up at all.”

Elena hums in sympathy. “Really, Frank, you are just too precious. What’s this boy’s name again?”

“Gerard.” Frank sighs longingly, thinking of the way the young man had looked when he’d seen him in the art supply store a few days prior. Black hair mussed from sleep, eyes drowsy and inviting, voice raspy from lack of use.

Frank had almost jumped him right then and there to have his wicked way with him.

Instead he’d invited him to his knitting group.

And he hadn’t even shown.

“My grandson’s name is Gerard, too, you know,” Elena replies after a moment, “but he hates it when I knit around him. Poor thing tripped on my knitting basket when he was six and hurt himself. Hasn’t gone near yarn or knitting needles since, if he can help it…”

Frank tries to pay attention to Elena, he really does, but he just can’t stop thinking about Gerard and his long, ink-smudged fingers, and his crooked, pink mouth, and the fact that he’d promised he’d be here, but he wasn’t.

Had he come on too strong? Had inviting him to a knitting group really been as stupid as it sounded? Was Gerard not a fan of his braid cable?

That’s obviously not the problem, Frank thinks, mechanically starting a new row, he hasn’t even seen my braid cable yet.

~*~*~

“Gerard?” A voice drifts from around the end cap. Frank perks up upon hearing the artist’s name. He isn’t really the type to eavesdrop, but he can’t stop himself from listening.

“Hey, Mikes…”

“Dude, what the fuck is with you lately?”

“Er, what—what do you mean?” Gerard stammers in response. Frank bites his lip, holding back a smile as he imagined the way Gerard would duck his head.

“You don’t even fucking like knitting and now you’re, like, buying all these fucking knitting supplies that you don’t even use.”

“What?” Frank isn’t aware he’s spoken aloud until Gerard whips his head around.

“Shit! Frank!” Gerard curses, eyes wide and that pretty, crooked mouth Frank can’t stop thinking about dropped open. “It’s not what it looks like!”

“Then what is it, Gerard?” The question is rhetorical. Frank isn’t stupid; he’s maybe a bit gullible and too trusting, but he can figure out what’s going on.

“It’s, you know, it’s--I just--” Gerard is stumbling over his words, but Frank isn’t letting himself fall for the man’s watery, puppy-dog look.

“You just what?”

“I just--I didn’t know you liked knitting, or anything, when I said I was looking for knitting needles. I only said it because it was the first thing that came to mind but then you said something about it, and I didn’t want to say how I actually didn’t know how to knit, or that I ever wanted to, so I just kind of went along with it, and then you invited me out to a knitting group, like, I didn’t even know there were knitting groups other than the ones my Grandma goes to, and, wow, that was really rude, wasn’t it? I didn’t mean it to say it like that--”

“You’re really not making the situation better.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say!” Gerard wrings his hands, bottom lip trembling.

“Actually, I don’t think I want you to say anything.” Frank sighs, eyes cold and hard. His chest feels tight, like he’s getting sick again. “Don’t talk to me. I feel really fucking stupid right now and I’d appreciate it if you left me alone for awhile.”

He starts to walk off, but Gerard grabs him by the elbow. “Wait! Frank, please--”

Frank shakes him off. “I said, leave me alone.”

He hears a tentative, “...Gerard?” behind him from the other man. He doesn’t stay to listen this time.

~*~*~

Gerard shuffles hesitantly into store three days later during one of Frank’s shifts. Frank refuses to engage him in conversation, ignoring his not-so-subtle coughs, throat clearing, and generally nervous fidgeting as he continues to stack the new batch of yarn rolls on the shelves in front of him.

Finally Gerard says pointedly, “Hey, Frank...”

“I thought I told you I wanted you to leave me alone for a little while.”

“Yeah, but, like,” Gerard bites his bottom lip hard, leaving it red and irritated when he lets go, “we left off on kind of a bad point? I just wanted to, I don’t know, I just wanted to, like, tell you that I really like you and I’m sorry I lied.”

Frank pauses with a hand on a roll of Medium Sea Green yarn. “You didn’t have to lie to me, you know. A lot of people don’t like to knit; it’s not like it’s a requirement that you need to know how to knit in order to date me.” He draws in a breath. “And the knitting thing wasn’t even that big of a deal, you know? It’s that you lied to me and I fell for it. Repeatedly.”

“Can we start over, or something fucking cheesy like that?”

Frank raises a skeptical eyebrow and sends it to Gerard over his shoulder. “You think pretending it never happened is the best to way deal with this?”

“No!” Gerard blushes and stares at the tops of his shoes before taking a step closer. “I just wanted to get things... out in the open?”

“Things?” Frank turns around to face him fully. “What kind of things?”

“Things like how I really am sorry I lied to you, and how I’m actually really fucking shit at knitting no matter how many Youtube videos I watch.” He takes another step, raising his eyes to meet Frank’s, hearing the catch in Frank’s throat when he says, “Things like how I really fucking like you, and how I keep coming into this art store and buying shit I can’t afford, because I want to see you, and talk to you, and make you smile.”

Gerard leans in, his breath ghosting across Frank’s lips as he says with a smile, “Things like how I wouldn’t be opposed to learning how to knit properly, if you were the one to teach me.”

Frank stares at him hard, unmoving, breathing slightly shallow. Ever so slowly, Frank lifts a hand, curling it around the back of Gerard’s neck, pressing his thumb into the pulse point right beneath the curve of his jaw.

The space between their lips is closed between one breath and the next. Frank sucks Gerard’s bottom lip into his mouth, tasting the slight tang of blood left on Gerard’s bitten lips. Gerard moans a bit, clutching at Frank's hips and returning the kiss full force.

“Frank! This is a family store!” the manager, Brian, gasps scandalized as he turns the corner. “Keep your fucking tongue out of the customers’ mouths.”

Frank giggles, pulling back but keeping his fingers on Gerard’s neck. His voice is low, husky, suggestive as he says, “So I get off work at six. Wanna see my braid cable?”

~ Fin ~

Aaaaahhhhhh!!!!

matchbox_bones — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 05:09:49 GMT

Yeah, okay, this is gonna happen. I'm going to make it happen.

TRY NEW THINGS, MEGAN. TRY THEM. YOU MIGHT SURPRISE YOURSELF. >________<

Oxygen into Gold

matchbox_bones — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 07:41:37 GMT

Title: Oxygen into Gold
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,509
Warnings: mild drug use (weeeeed), handjobs, and references to Dr. Manhattan.
Disclaimer: This is called "fanfiction" for a reason.
Summary: Gerard and Frank get high and watch a meteor shower.

A/N: There was a meteor shower over where I live a few weeks ago and I was sort of inspired?

OXYGEN INTO GOLD

On a lonely stretch of road on the east coast of North America around 10pm, the van stutters to a halt, heaves a deep sigh, and refuses to start up again. Ray nervously fiddles around under the hood for a while, touching various bits and pieces of machinery before finally admitting defeat and saying, “I’ll call Brian tomorrow morning and get him to send a mechanic, or something.”

The only one who doesn’t seem upset at the inconvenience is Frank, but then Frank’s never been one to let inconveniences get him down.

~*~*~

Gerard figures it's due comeuppance that, considering he decided to sleep through the band’s pit stop seven hours ago before the van broke down, he wakes up at 2:30 in the morning needing to pee so bad he’s momentarily frightened that his dick is going to explode.

He’s half-asleep and stumbling, and despite the light of the full moon, he still manages to trip over something in the grass on his return trip to the van.

For a second he thinks he’s discovered a dead body and won’t that be awkward to explain to Brian when arrives in the morning.

Frank’s high-pitched pot giggle says otherwise.

“Frank? Dude, what the fuck are you doing out here?” Gerard scrambles to his feet, brushing his knotted black hair out of his eyes. Frank’s lying on his back, one arm used as a pillow under his head, the white tee shirt underneath his hoodie pulled up and exposing the bird tattoos on his hips.

“What does it look like I’m doing, asshole?”

“It looks like you’re smoking weed and not sharing.” Gerard tells himself to stop thinking about how soft Frank’s tummy looks, or how much he’d like to know if tattooed skin tastes any different than skin unmarked. “Where did you get it? When did you get it?”

“From a guy, like, three weeks ago after one of our shows.” Frank answers with a lazy grin, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth.

“And you saved it for this long? Seriously?”

Frank shifts in his spot. Gerard watches as the movements allow Frank’s left knee to peek out from the hole in his jeans. “Well, yeah. There’s supposed to be a meteor shower tonight at, like, three or something.”

“You saved your weed for a meteor shower?”

“It’s a fucking celestial event, Gerard;” Frank responds, pausing to take another hit, “How many celestial events have you witnessed?”

Gerard thinks that maybe watching Frank writhe around on his back and thrusting against his guitar during shows doesn’t count as witnessing a celestial event, so he doesn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought.” Frank pats the patch of grass by his side with his free hand. “Now, sit the fuck down. I thought you wanted me to share?”

~*~*~

“I guess I know what people mean,” Gerard says after awhile, breaking the comfortable silence, “when they say they feel really small when they look at the stars.”

Frank glances over but Gerard isn’t looking at him. “Yeah?”

“Like, look at all that up there. There’s so much out there that we can’t even begin to understand. We’re just one tiny part of one tiny part of the universe. We’re practically nonexistent in the grand scheme of things. Why does anything we do right here and now even matter?” Gerard looks at him now, the joint almost forgotten as he asks, “Why do I even matter?”

Frank exhales slowly. “Okay, so, like, here’s the thing. You remember how in Watchmen, Dr. Manhattan gave that whole fuckin’ monologue about miracles, and how managing to create one single person, ‘out of millions upon millions of cells competing for life,’ ‘so specific a form from all that chaos,’ is like turning oxygen into gold, and shit, right?”

Gerard nods.

“Like, this is fucking cliched as shit, but you are literally one in a million, Gee. You’re fucking oxygen turning into gold right now. How can you think, for even one second, that you’re insignificant? That you don’t matter? To me, or your brother, or anyone else?” Frank makes grabby hands at the joint perched between Gerard’s thumb and forefinger. “Now, c’mon. I’m supposed to be sharing the weed with you, not the other way around, asshole.”

Gerard laughs and hands it over. Frank’s fingers are warm as they brush against his own and suddenly he doesn’t feel so bad. “Dude, you know how people think brain cells look like the universe? Like, what if there’re little dudes way down small in our brain cells, getting high, and talking about how insignificant they feel?”

“Mhmm,” Frank hums in agreement, sucking in a deep breath and holding the smoke for several seconds.

“If you’re, like, killing brain cells and shit,” Gerard continues, waving his hands at the night sky, “does that mean you’re actually, like, a mass murderer? Or I guess that’d be more like genocide than anything...”

He trails off. The grass beneath them is cold and wet, dewy, but Frank’s heat is bleeding through his clothes, and Gerard feels warm, almost too warm, along his side where he and Frank are touching. He worries that maybe Frank is getting sick again and has a fever. He looks over and Frank’s eyes are almost closed, mouth parted, taking in long, deep breaths between each pull on the joint.

Gerard’s reaching over to cop a feel of his forehead when Frank jackknifes into a sitting position and points at the sky. “Look at that! Holy shit, Gerard. That’s fucking beautiful.”

Frank’s cheeks are flushed, his pupils wide and dilated, and Gerard thinks that Frank is maybe more beautiful than the spectacle taking place above them. Frank’s always been kind of stupidly beautiful, though, even when he was chubby, and had oily skin, and those stupid, smelly pot dreads. Gerard has never been one of those who are immune to his charms.

He certainly isn’t immune when Frank stubs out the joint in the grass and leans over to kiss him. Suddenly Frank is clutching the back of Gerard’s head, pulling just on the side of a little too hard on the black strands and Gerard moans, fucking moans, in response, pressing himself closer and sucking hard on Frank’s tongue.

Gerard admits that he’s maybe a bit of a slut as he’s reaching for Frank’s belt buckle, but his progress is thwarted when Frank bats his hand away. At first he’s worried that he’s taken the kiss mean something that Frank had not intended, but then he realizes he’s more angry than anything. If Frank hadn’t planned on following up, then he shouldn’t have kissed him in the first place.

Frank interrupts his thoughts by sticking his hand down Gerard’s pants and wrapping his fingers around his dick. Mostly it’s awkward and uncomfortable, because his pants aren’t unbuttoned and Frank can barely jack him off, but he still whimpers when Frank pulls his hand out.

He doesn’t stay away long, though; only long enough to unzip Gerard’s pants and bring his dick out into the chilly fresh air. Then he’s jacking him hard, and tight, and it’s so fucking perfect that Gerard doesn’t even know what to do with himself; he’s just keening high in his throat and trying not to embarrass himself by coming fifteen seconds after Frank’s started touching him.

When he comes, Frank grins, one side of his mouth quirked up as he licks Gerard’s jizz off his fingers.

Gerard kisses him, tasting some of himself on Frank’s tongue, already reaching for the zipper on Frank's jeans. “My turn.”

~*~*~

“You know, you’ve got some kind of crazy weird luck,” he says after a few minutes, because Frank has chosen to remain silent in the aftermath. Frank’s come is drying on his hand; it’s sticky and kind of gross, but he doesn’t wipe it away. He wonders if this changes anything between them, or if Frank just likes to get high and exchange handjobs while watching meteor showers.

Frank slides him a glance through lowered lashes. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he frowns, sitting up and wiping his hands in the grass, “like, if we hadn’t broken down, we probably wouldn’t have been out here with such a great view of all of this celestial event shit, right?”

“You think?”

“Yeah, dude. That’s really great timing. Like, really great timing.”

“How about that.”

Gerard gets the feeling he’s missing something. He eyes Frank suspiciously as he asks, “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Frank laughs low in his throat, sucking his lip ring into his mouth. “Nope. Not at all.”

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God, Frank.” Gerard punches him hard in the arm when he realizes. “You totally fucking set this up, didn’t you? How you’d do it? Ray looked at fucking everything.”

“Yeah, well,” Frank murmurs with a sly smile, moving his hand to Gerard’s thigh and leaning in, his breath warm on the other man’s lips, “Ray didn’t even think to check the gas tank, did he?”

~ Fin ~

Frank the Hot Librarian

matchbox_bones — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 07:08:59 GMT

This one time last summer I told my friend that I really liked Frank's hipster/nerd glasses and she wrote this fic for me about Frank being a librarian, and Gerard being a creeper and using the Great Gatsby as a cover for being in the library so often. And then near the end Gerard gets ready to have sex with Frank in the stacks and gets him naked but made him keep his glasses on during.

She never finished it, though. She ended it RIGHT BEFORE THE HOT SEX and said, "Bringing his mouth off of his jeans, Frank had the audacity to grin up at him slyly before popping open the button on his tight jeans and undoing the zipper.

THEN DICK SUCKIN WENT DOWN AND GERARD BANGED HIS HEAD AGAINST THE BOOKSHELVES MULTIPLE TIMES BEFORE PULLING FRANK'S MOUTH OFF HIS COCK AND THROWING HIM AGAINST THE BOOKCASE AND FUCKING HIM SILLY.

THE END."

But anyway, I only thought about this because I just found a FINISHED Frank the Hot Librarian fic (found here) and it was so nice, and it made me wish my friend had finished that other fic for me, because it was so good. ;____;

In other news: I'm almost finished with the thing I've been writing for the past week or so! Three cheers for progress! :D

Deep sigh.

matchbox_bones — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 06:09:40 GMT

It always takes me so long to write one thing. Even fics that are only one or two thousand words, I'll spend at least a week or so on, because I want to make sure I'm getting across what I'm trying to say in just the right way. It takes me awhile to get to the point where I think it's okay for someone else to look at.

I always see people on here putting out these awesome fics and it seems like it took them barely any time at all to write them. Is it because they're used to writing creatively so often? Or is there some fic-writer secret that I haven't discovered yet? :(

Whaaaaat?

matchbox_bones — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 23:16:11 GMT

It's so weird to see people whose fics I've read commenting on my stuff. O_____o

(It's a good kind of weird, though. Like "oh, well, this is awesome," and then some starry eyes *______*)

Coin-Operated Boy

matchbox_bones — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 05:01:01 GMT

Title: Coin-Operated Boy
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,256
Warnings: mild sexual content
Disclaimer: This is called "fanfiction" for a reason.
Summary: Mikey sends Gerard a lovebot in the mail.

(Author's Note: I originally wrote this in October 2011, and while I was writing it I found a pete/patrick lovebot fic by soundslikej, and in it she used the phrase "Personal Computerized Companion," which I really liked, so that phrase is TOTALLY NOT MINE, it's hers.

I also wrote this before I found out about the yobrothatssick challenge, in which mrsronweasley wrote a fic called The Way They Fly, which is also about a robot!Frank. I was actually really excited to read another robot!Frank fic, since I hadn't ever seen any My Chem fics involving the boys as robots. And of course it's by mrsronweasley WHO IS AMAZING, so. If you haven't read it yet, YOU REALLY, REALLY SHOULD.)

COIN-OPERATED BOY

“How the fuck am I supposed to turn you on?”

Gerard expels a breath impatiently, patting down the robot and running his hands over the synthetic skin in search of switches. The skin feels as real as it had looked. Soft, smooth, with just a little bit of give when he presses his thumbs into the bird tattoos on either side of the robot’s hips. He digs in with his fingernails, watching as a small crescent moon-shaped indent appears seconds after he lets up on the pressure.

Such a human reaction.

He isn’t expecting the tiny bolt of electricity that shocks him through the pads of his thumbs. Gerard jerks his arm back, hard enough that he loses his balance and falls to the floor in a heap of unwashed skin and paint-stained clothing. “Ow! Motherfucker!”

“Sorry.” a voice says from above. “They don’t tell prospective buyers that the initial DNA transfer and activation can be a little... unexpected.”

“Unexpected?” Gerard repeats, incredulous. “DNA transfer?”

“You don’t know?” The robot asks skeptically, raising one perfectly shaped eyebrow.

Gerard hunches in on himself. “Didn’t know what?”

“I belong to you now. The DNA transfer is like branding. Or imprinting, I guess, since its internal.”

“Why would you need to be branded?”

“Because, like I said, I belong to you now. I can’t very well be off performing my duties to someone who isn’t my owner.” The robot rolls his eyes. “Didn’t you read the manual?”

“...Duties?”

~*~*~

“Mikey.”

“Gerard.”

“Mikey.”

“Gerard?”

“Stop pretending you don’t know why I’m calling! You sent me a sex-robot in the mail. A smart-ass sex-robot. A smart-ass sex-robot who keeps trying to take my clothes off when he thinks I’m not expecting it.”

“That’s what he’s there for, you know? What with him being a lovebot and all.”

“That’s not the point!” Gerard sighs, exasperated. “The point is: you sent me a sex-robot.”

“I thought you might like him.” Mikey replies after a moment. “And besides, you haven’t even left your apartment in almost a year, except to shop for Hot Pockets and, like, art-related shit...”

“So you bought me a lovebot, because you think I can’t any action on my own?”

“Yeah, well, you haven’t gotten laid in how long?”

Gerard resolves to give Mikey the silent treatment for the next week. Maybe two.

~*~*~

“You know, for a guy who bought a lovebot, you’re surprisingly disinterested.” The robot, or “Frank” as he’d called himself, pouts from his position on the couch. His arms are crossed over his chest and Gerard tries not to notice how it accentuates the tattoos on his biceps.

Gerard’s eyes skitter away from their target. “I didn’t buy you. My brother bought you for me. ”

Frank rolls his eyes. “Same difference.”

“No it isn’t! It’s totally different!”

“Yeah, whatever you say.”

Then Frank is silent, and Gerard guesses that means the conversation is over.

~*~*~

“Is it because I’m short?”

Gerard startles, choking on his cereal. “What?”

“Or do you just have a thing against tattoos, or something?” Frank asks, tonguing his silver lip ring. “Because I was created to be pretty desirable, and you don’t seem to be attracted to me at all.”

“It--it’s not that you’re unattractive.” Gerard stammers in response, setting his spoon down on the table. “It’s that you’re. You know.”

“So it’s because I’m a robot.” Frank’s voice fell flat and Gerard knows that it wasn’t a question.

“No! It’s because this is like an elaborate plan by my brother to get me laid, and even though you’re, you know, hot and all, I’m--I really--you’re--it feels like a pity-fuck?”

Frank stands staring at him for a moment, hip cocked to the side as he leans against the wall. “Okay, first of all: I’m technically a PCC, or a Personal Computerized Companion, which means that I’m meant to be your friend, not just your--your lover, or whatever the fuck you want to call it. And while I was programmed to have the knowledge of how to do things to you all sexual-like, it’s the not the only thing I know how to do. I can, for example, play wicked guitar, bake a pretty delicious batch of vegan cupcakes, and educate you on all the finer points in the history of punk rock.

And second of all: I might be a robot, but I’m a little defective and have this thing called ‘free will’ that robots aren’t supposed to have, which means that despite what you seem to think, I’m not being forced to have sex with you.”

“Then why do you keep trying to take my clothes off?!” Gerard knows he sounds a bit shrilly, and that it’s not the least bit attractive, but he just can’t seem to help himself.

“Because you’re hot...?"

“Oh.”

~*~*~

“So what do they do with defective robots?” Gerard asks a few days later, munching on one of Frank’s specialty vegan cupcakes.

“If we’re returned to the original manufacturer, they--” Frank pauses, glances up from Gerard’s favorite comic--”You better be really fucking careful with that; it’s seriously one of my single most prized possessions, motherfucker. A signed fucking copy, dammit--” and then quickly back down. “They melt us down to be reused for newer, working models.”

Gerard’s heart jumps in his throat. “What? Why? I mean...”

“If a robot doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to, why bother having it at all?” Frank carefully avoids Gerard’s eyes, pretends he doesn’t notice the way Gerard is trying to meet his gaze.

“Frank. Frank, come on. Look at me, okay? Like... you know I’m not going to--to get rid of you, right?”

Frank’s eyes catch his this time, and he gives Gerard a small, content smile. “I know.”

~*~*~

“Mmm, fuck, Frank...”

“Bet you’re sorry you resisted me for so long, huh?”

“Nngg, if you don’t get your mouth back on my dick right fucking now--”

“Ooh, dirty talk; I like it.”

“--seriously if you don’t, I’m going to cry or someth--ahhhh--”

~*~*~

A lot of the sensory coding in Frank’s skin is especially sensitive under certain tattoos, like the seven-legged scorpion on the right side of his neck, or right at the point where the two pistols on his lower back cross. He doesn’t know if it’s just coincidence, and another part of his defects, or if his creator made it that way on the purpose.

He doesn’t really care.

Mostly he just likes the little, whining noises Frank makes low in his throat when he touches those spots with his tongue.

~*~*~

“Mikey.”

“Gerard?”

“...”

“Gerard? You there? Look, I’m--I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t think--”

“No, it’s okay--it’s--” Gerard sighs, tugging on a knotted lock of black hair. “He’s great, Mikes.”

“Really?”

“You sound kind of surprised.” He glances over to Frank, who sits across the room, focused on reading through the entirety of Gerard’s comic collection.

“I mean, I got him, like, half-price from Gabe, so I thought there might be something wrong with him,” Mikey replies and then rushes to add, “but, I mean, it sounds like you aren’t having any problems, so...”

“He came from Gabe?”

He can tell Mikey can hear his disapproving tone when he says, “Yeah, Gabe created him, but everything turned out for the best, right?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Gerard drums his fingers on knee, takes a deep breath. “Just.. thanks, Mikes.”

And then Frank looks up from across the room, and smiles at him, and Gerard doesn’t even remember to say goodbye as he hangs up the phone.

~ Fin ~

And a Partridge in a Pear Tree

matchbox_bones — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 23:12:06 GMT

Title: And a Partridge in a Pear Tree (also here on AO3)
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,102
Warnings: Uh, is "teacher/student relationship" something that needs a warning?
Disclaimer: This is called "fanfiction" for a reason.
Summary: The Twelve Days of Christmas done the way a budding photojournalist with a crush on his high school art teacher would.

(Author's Note: I wrote this, like, RIGHT before Christmas as a present to my friend Brigette, because she lives very far away, and I couldn't buy/send her anything, and I know she likes teacher/student frerard fics.

And also: Don't Stand So Close to Me, by the Police, is a song about teacher/student relationships, hahaha.)

AND A PARTRIDGE IN A PEAR TREE

The first time Gerard receives one of the notes, he is returning from his lunch break in the high school cafeteria. A small, white envelope is placed carefully in the center of the mess he calls his desk, and he manages to give himself a wicked paper cut while attempting to rip it open. The envelope itself only consists of an unsigned note that says, Did you know that, in some places, the partridge is considered a symbol of intense, but often unrequited, love? Kind of sad, don’t you think?

~*~*~

The second note Gerard receives is in a large 8x10 manila envelope and contains not only another note, but a set of two different photographs picturing a pair of doves being released at a wedding. The first print shows the hands of a newly wedded couple each holding a dove, while the second print shows the doves talking flight with nothing but a clear blue sky as a backdrop.

He knows, with the skill of anyone whose life revolves around art, that the shots are extremely well done. They are, perhaps, a little unsure, as though the photographer was young, or inexperienced, but with enough natural talent to make up for the lack of proper training.

Gerard runs his fingers over the tiny “F.I. ’11” printed in black ink on the bottom right-hand corner of each photograph, eyebrows pushing together in confusion. He frowns, setting the photographs down in favor of picking up the handwritten note, which reads, Turtle doves are emblems of devoted love. Isn’t it silly that wedding doves aren’t even doves at all? All these people getting married, thinking they’re all symbolic and shit, and they don’t even have the right bird.

~*~*~

In the same fashion as the others before it, the third 8x10 manila envelope is on his desk when he returns from the cafeteria; inside are more photographs and another unsigned note. This time there are three photographs. Each print is of three fluffy-footed hens; one is of them pecking at the seeds on the ground and another shows the group in a line. The final shot is of the hens nestled together for warmth, beaks tucked against the feathers of the closest bird.

The “F.I. ‘11” signature rests again at the bottom right-hand corner. Gerard pulls the note out of the envelope, briefly wondering why the mysterious note-leaver doesn’t sign the notes themselves, but finds it perfectly okay to leave a signature on the photographs.

Chickens are apparently a symbol of the futility of hope, the note reads, because of how they survive for a little while after their heads are chopped off. Sometimes I wonder if hoping for you is like that. Like maybe you won’t notice me even after I’ve done all this. Like that chicken’s gonna die even after struggling for a little while.

That was a shitty analogy. It probably doesn’t even make sense.

I’m not really good with words.

~*~*~

By the time the fourth note arrives, Gerard realizes that somehow he has a managed to acquire a secret admirer of sorts. As a child to his late teens he’d been withdrawn from the world, hidden away in his basement, content to watch horror movies and read comic books sunup to sundown, and create works of art that no one would ever see. If not for the fact that he had been forced to venture into the real world by his brother, he would have been happy staying underground for the remainder of his life.

He’s never really had a secret admirer before and, despite telling himself otherwise, he gets a little bit excited when he sees that the stranger has left another note in its familiar spot on his desk.

Gerard carefully retrieves four 8x10 photographs of crows from the envelope, inspecting them closely before moving on to read the note.

The original writers didn’t mean ‘calling,’ did you know that? ‘Calling’ is actually an Americanization of the word ‘colly,’ meaning black. For some people, black birds are a good omen. I guess that’s a good thing, since the black birds follow the chickens and their fucking ‘futility of hope’ shit.

P.S. We don’t have black birds in Jersey, so you get the next best thing.

~*~*~

“F.I.” leaves Gerard another envelope on Friday.

Enclosed are five close-up shots of hands. The hands in each photograph are from two different people, clasped together, fingers interlocked, and wedding bands glinting in the sunlight. Some of the hands are from younger couples, but the others are from couples much older, from couples who hold on to each other as thought they’ve spent nearly the entirety of their lives with one another.

Gerard can’t ignore the way his heart catches in his chest when he reads, You always look so lonely. I don’t want you to feel lonely. You deserve someone, even if it isn’t me.

~*~*~

The sixth note arrives on the following Monday and holds six prints of geese on the front lawn of the school. The school is unfocused in the background, but it’s definitely the high school Gerard has worked at for the past four years. Even though he’s suspected for awhile that the sender must associated with the school in some way, proof of his suspicions is still a little strange.

The sender’s note inside the envelope reads, I once read somewhere that geese live by the same motto as the marines, “semper fidelis,” or “always faithful.” If one of the flock is injured during flight, another goose will stay with the injured until it has recovered, or until it has taken its final breath. Until death do us part?

~*~*~

The sender must be a fellow staff member, Gerard decides after receiving the seventh note, or maybe just someone with a talent at picking locks. Gerard wonders if he should maybe be at least a little disturbed at the possibility of having an expert lock-pick as his secret admirer. Mostly he wonders if he shouldn’t be so charmed at the possibility that someone is willing to pick locks in order to leave him secret letters.

Seven photographs of swans are in the envelope in addition to the standard unsigned note.

Did you know that swans mate for years? Some of them mate for their entire lives.

~*~*~

Gerard only realizes what his secret admirer is doing when eight photographs of cows being milked are enclosed in the manila envelope the following day. The person milking the cows is an older woman, around sixty years old, with her skin tough and weathered from being outdoors over the years.

Milkmaids don’t really exist anymore. There are people who milk cows, or make butter and shit from the milk they get, but it’s not like a thing women are supposed to do. Three cheers for equality?

~*~*~

“Nine ladies dancing,” Gerard sings under his breath, looking again through the nine photographs he had received earlier that day. He’s taken to tacking the prints to the blank space above his bed at home. The wall has been blank since he bought the house a little over a year ago, and nothing he ever put up before seemed right until now.

No shot out of nine is of the whole woman. One picture is of her hand clasped in the hand of the man with whom she dances. Another is of the man’s hand at her waist. Yet another is of her legs, mint green dress swirling around her knees as she dances across the ballroom floor with her partner. His favorite shot is of her smile.

She looks absolutely and utterly happy.

He wants to be that happy.

He dreams that night of hands and lips on skin, burning hot to the touch, mouths moving wet and warm. Gerard wakes in the morning covered in sweat, painfully aroused, and knowing with absolute certainty of whom he was dreaming.

~*~*~

The tenth note is accompanied, as usual, by another set of photos. They are, much like others, stunning. The note this time, however, says nothing related to the “ten lords-a-leaping” verse of the song, and instead reads, Do you ever read the school newspaper? I’ve never seen you with it.

Gerard takes the hint for what it is and as he heads home later that evening, he stops at the door to grab one of the remaining newspapers.

He avoids looking at it until after he’s eaten dinner.

Why he’s afraid to flip through the pages, he is unsure, but he waits until he can’t standing doing so any longer. He’s flicked past several pages when he sees it: one of the first photographs he’d received from F.I. The accompanying article is titled “And a Partridge in a Pear Tree,” and discusses holiday traditions ranging from Christmas carols to in-laws getting drunk on eggnog. While the article is witty and well-written, Gerard is more interested in the photographer than the journalist.

The caption underneath the photo reads, Three French hens take a snack break before the next line of the chorus reaches them, which is then followed by, photo by: Frank Iero, Senior.

Gerard’s heart leaps high in his throat, because now he has a name and it’s Frank Frank Frank Iero, and then his breath catches hard in his chest, because shit shit shit he’s still in fucking high school shit this cannot be good at all.

~*~*~

Gerard doesn’t leave his room during lunch the next day. He’s running behind and still needs to catch up with grading assignments before Christmas Break begins. The door to his classroom is closed and he’s so focused on the assignments that he almost misses it when the eleventh envelope slips beneath the door.

He only notices because of the light knock on the door that comes after the envelope has been pushed through. Gerard is up in a flash, yanking open the door so hard the handle knocks against the wall.

Frank is, of course, already gone.

Gerard imagines the air is still warm from his breath.

~*~*~

Gerard decides that discovering just who Frank Iero is is more important than grading the last of his students’ art assignments before Christmas Break. This is last of the Twelve Days of Christmas and last day before the school lets out on Break. Somehow he knows that after this Frank won’t be sending any more photographs, or handwritten notes.

The thought frightens Gerard more than he cares to admit.

So he leaves his room, locks the door, and turns the corner towards the cafeteria as usual.

He waits by the corner until he hears footsteps, and then a very quiet metallic sound as the lock is picked.

“Um, uh, Frank, right?” Gerard asks a little too loudly in the empty hallway;

The kid spins around so fast he almost loses his balance. Frank stares at him in silence as he walks over, eyes wide and frightened, fingers clutching at the thick envelope in his hands, lock-pick abandoned in the doorknob.

“That’s...” Gerard starts, nervously fiddling with the black buttons on his vest. He takes a deep breath and a step closer, feeling like a fucking teenager with a crush. He’s eighteen years old and in high school all over again. “That’s for me, right?”

Frank nods, licking his lips and gingerly handing the twelfth, and final, envelope to Gerard.

Gerard looks up, scans the hallways. He grabs his keys from his pocket, removes the lock-pick, and unlocks the door. Pulling Frank inside, he shuts the door and returns his focus to the object in his hands. He looks up and catches Frank’s gaze, not letting go as he opens the envelope. He’ll look at the photographs later; right now he’s interested in the note. Frank’s eyes flick from him to the note and he swallows audibly, glancing around as if to escape.

This time the note reads, I think I’m in love with you.

Frank is squeezing his eyes tightly shut, biting hard on his bottom lip.

Crowding him against the desk where all the other notes were left, Gerard brackets Frank in with his arms. He’s so close he can feel Frank’s breath hitch against his chest when he presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw beneath his ear.

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but he’s got fucking butterflies twirling around in his stomach at the thought of Frank and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt like this about anyone. Fuck everything else.

“I think,” Gerard whispers, lips ghosting against the shell of Frank’s ear, “I think I could maybe love you, too.”

~ Fin ~

New Year's Resolutions

matchbox_bones — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 19:37:21 GMT

My friend told me I should put my stuff on livejournal, and I wasn't going to, because I feel weird about people reading anything I write, but since it's the new year, I thought, "WELL, WHY NOT." So I guess this means my New Year's resolution is to stop being so wimpy and to put myself out there for once???