There are a number of possible versions of this story floating around; one is much longer and angstier, and resolves into different pairings. Another is lighter and sillier, generally more fun. This is quite probably the first of two stories, but it may be changed or deleted or re-posted at some point, depending on my mood and whether or not Frank grows his hair out, and/or Pete Wentz changes the world in some unpredictable way.
Make suggestions if you feel so moved! Any kind, and whether I follow them or not, I will definitely read them carefully and take your input seriously.
I actually think quite highly of both Mr. Iero and Mr. Stump, and their behavior in this story in no way reflects my view of their actual maturity levels, Frank in particular.
To the non-bandom folks on the flist: thanks for being so patient with my latest infatuation. I'm watching Fastlane and warming up to SG:A again this week, so there may be other content soon. In particular, I want to do a "Things I've Learned" in SGA RPS sometime this month. Suggestions or thoughts on the subject would be embraced.
Pull My… You Know What, Nevermind
Bandslash: My Chemical Romance crossover with Fall Out Boy
Pairing: Patrick Stump/Frank Iero
Summary: The Warped Tour hadn’t been going for long, but certain patterns were becoming obvious.
Author’s Notes: Any comments are welcome. Thanks to![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fragilistikal for cleaning up messy grammar and for great plotting suggestions. Any loose ends are totally my fault. For the purposes of this story, both Patrick and Frank are, and have been, single throughout ‘05. And it’s not really funny, because it’s sad. But then again, it’s pretty funny how sad it is. This is not your beautiful romance.
Click their names above to see pictures of the guys.
WARNING: this is wholly fictional, of course, and anybody who recognizes their own or a friend’s name in this should definitely not read it. I’m serious, Pete. And don’t let Gabe see it, either.
by stungunbilly
The first time Patrick saw Frank Iero, he was flying through the air. My Chemical Romance had just finished a set, and Frank literally bounded off the stage, leaping into the crowd and howling until the security guys hauled him back to where Pete, Mikey, Patrick and Gerard had been learning to talk to each other. Frank was smiling gleefully, covered in sweat and almost glowing. It was electric, and Patrick couldn’t help noticing Frank’s body under the wet white shirt, each muscle outlined by the almost see-through fabric.
“This is Frank,” said Gerard, with a proprietary smile Patrick recognized from Pete’s repertoire. “He’s our sparkliest princess.”
“Fuck you,” Frank cheerily replied, turning to Pete. “Hey man, you’re Wentz, right?” He held out a friendly hand to shake, sounding strangely deep-voiced and collected where Patrick had expected less maturity. They shook, and Frank turned to Patrick.
“You look kind of familiar too. What do you play?”
His grin was blinding, his face like artwork, his clothes the essence of punk rock. He was like every really cool kid Patrick had ever known in high school, like he had thought the Great Pete Wentz would be until they met.
Patrick disliked him immediately.
~
It was a fucking joke, but Patrick Stump was apparently an uptight asshole. Too bad, since Frank kind of wanted to fuck him right there on stage every time he watched him sing. But one little joke about Stump’s relative anonymity to the press and Frank had seen Patrick close up like a really fuck-able, but bitchy clam.
Wentz watched Patrick like a hawk, too, at least when he wasn’t drinking attention like fine whiskey. The Warped Tour hadn’t been going for long, but certain patterns were becoming obvious. Mikey and Pete were like best girlfriends, though Frank didn’t think they had anything going on below the belt. Gerard and Patrick were bonding over board games, and Bob, Ray, and Patrick spent way too much time in the back of the bus being music geeks. Andy and Joe were basically joined at the hip to their girlfriends, only around for the performances. But no matter what else was going on, Pete was never far from Patrick.
Stump didn’t really seem to notice. He was kind of out of it, sometimes, in his head and not seeming to see what was around him. It made Frank itch to pull pranks on him, so he did; spring-loaded snakes in his guitar case, sharpied messages on his exposed skin when he fell asleep, personal clothing items hung outside his tour bus. It was hilarious, the way he would get red, and stomp around, and wave his arms when he yelled.
It made Frank laugh and laugh, although Gerard seemed kind of pissed about it. He really liked Patrick, and he didn’t get why Frank didn’t. It wasn’t like Frank was really over wanting Gerard; he probably never would be, but he wasn’t going to let Gerard tell him who he could and couldn’t prank. No matter how many darkly disappointed looks Gerard flashed him.
Patrick was a tightly-wound dick, who happened to also have phenomenal talent and amazing skin, but plainly no sense of humor and not much of any other kind of sense. Gerard couldn’t see it, but Frank knew that Patrick Stump needed to be mocked. Frank was just the right man for the job.
Unfortunately, Wentz seemed like he might become a problem. He’d been friendly enough, and as long as the jokes were pretty minor league, he seemed to kind of enjoy them. But after the underwear incident, Stump’s incredible mouth had gone tense and he’d muttered instead of yelling while collecting his cute little boxer-briefs off the bus antenna. Pete had started looking at Frank with a bit of calculation in his eyes.
It was a little worrying. Frank thought about lying low, but that wasn’t his style. He had a box of bottle rockets that needed to be used, anyway, and tonight they were getting hotel rooms. Sudden noises tended to make Stump jump, and that was too much rhyming fun for Frank to pass up just because Patrick’s keeper was giving him the evil eye.
~
Patrick fucking *hated* Frank Iero.
He now had no clean underwear, and man, he really didn’t like snakes. It wasn’t like Frank had any reason to pick on him all the time; Patrick had never actually told Frank he couldn’t stand him. He didn’t fawn all over him, but he’d never been mean or *shunned* him or anything. Why did guys like Iero always want to fuck with guys like him?
Wasn’t it enough for the dude to be gorgeous, talented, and even witty? Couldn’t his cool be satisfied with being in one of the best bands around and being able to charm his way through life? How could humiliating one short, fat, balding dude make his life any better?
But it seemed like every time he dozed off, he woke up to something embarrassing written on his flesh; the last time, the words EAT ME had appeared on his stomach right over his belt. Patrick had honestly thought Pete would injure himself laughing when he saw it. Worse, Pete had basically hung all over him and given him about fifteen propositions, each one more lewd (and unlikely, damn it) than the last.
It had to stop. He’d spent some time talking to Gerard, trying to scout out Iero’s weaknesses, but they seemed to be primarily tendencies toward illness and accidental self-injury. Neither thing was something Patrick would inflict, even if he could, and anyway he couldn’t. It was very frustrating.
The rest of My Chemical Romance were all great guys, especially Gerard, Ray, and Bob, all of whom took music very seriously and were more than willing to share their awesome equipment. Mikey was nice, too, though he and Pete had their heads together all of the time recently, making it hard for Patrick to get to know the guy. Gerard had haltingly apologized for Frank’s tricks, patting Patrick on the back and looking chagrined until Patrick lied and told him it was fine, he could deal.
Iero, though, was a dickweed. Sometimes Patrick watched him on stage during MCR’s sets, wondering how a guy could spend that much energy playing (and radiating sex appeal, like a spotlight beaming slut rays at the audience) and still find time to fuck with another performer’s person and personal items. It wasn’t like Patrick had never been pranked before; having to wear clothes that smelled like Pete’s piss was one of the low points of his life to date, after all. But somehow most of the more unpleasant tricks were usually done by other people to other people. Nobody had ever personally targeted Patrick on previous tours.
Tonight he was going to get a real bed to sleep in, and possibly a chance to clean some of his abused underwear in the sink. He couldn’t wait, because the stress was making it hard to get enough rest. He would just have to make certain he and Frank didn’t get rooms anywhere near each other.
~
He tried not to jump when Trohman suddenly loomed out the shadows and grabbed his arm, but Frank couldn’t help it. The guy was usually so chill, calm and good-natured and mostly absent. Nobody expected to be accosted by him in the middle of an empty parking lot outside someone else’s motel room.
Joe shouldn’t even be here; the rest of the bands were staying at a nicer hotel three blocks away from this kind of crummy motel. The only way Frank had found out where Patrick was staying had been by bribing one of Pete’s creepy hangers-on. That had been weird, since apparently the guy was a huge fan and thought Frank’s onstage self-inflicted injuries were a sign that he and Frank were meant to be bffs.
Trohman had one seriously scary glare, especially when he kind of set his jaw and cut a look at the rockets in Frank’s hands. Frank might have squeaked, just a bit. He cleared his throat, swallowed the panicky feeling, and met Joe’s stare head on.
“What, dude?” he said, maybe a little aggressively.
“Look,” said Trohman, shaking his mane in clear agitation. “I don’t know if anyone has told you, or what, but. Nobody messes with Patrick. You just. Don’t do that, man. You just don’t.” He let go of Frank’s arms, and Frank stepped back. “I mean, I get it that you are just playing around, but you’re kind of getting to him.” He ran one of his big hands over his head, huffed. Stared some more.
Now Frank was pissed. He stood up on the balls of his feet, leaned forward, shaking his rocket-holding hand for emphasis. “If Stump has a problem with me, he can talk to me himself. What are you, his mother?”
Instead of getting back into his face, Joe kind of rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You don’t get it, *nobody* fucks with Patrick. You can get pissy all you want, but pretty much everyone has his back. You should be glad it’s me out here talking to you, and not Pete, or fuck, Andy.”
“So, what, his *posse* is going to kick my ass? That is so fucking lame, dude. It’s like second grade.”
Joe actually laughed at this. “Nobody’s going to kick your ass, Iero. You’re a little weasel sometimes, but I like you just fine when you aren’t upsetting my singer. I just would feel really sorry for a guy who has fifteen people putting him on top of the ‘to be fucked with’ list.”
This actually was a pretty valid threat. Frank knew his band would cover him, but even Bob would laugh if he became ground zero of the prank wars. Plus, Gerard was already pissed at him about messing with Stump. He sighed, and backed down. Fuck.
“Fuck,” he said. “Okay. But I have these great bottle rockets, and think how funny it would be if I could sneak into the bathroom and set them off.”
Joe perked up at that. He looked intrigued for a moment, then sighed regretfully. “Not happening, sorry. It, yeah, might be pretty funny,” and his eyes definitely held a wistful gleam, “but it’s been a rule since always, Iero. Patrick is pretty funny when you mess with him, but basically, we need him to not kill anyone or leave us to hang out with more mature people, so. No messing with the Stump.”
That basically sucked, especially since Frank actually liked Joe a lot and didn’t want to piss him off more than needed. But it was the work of minutes to persuade Joe that, yeah, he got it, and he’d totally mellow out on his singer. Then Joe was off, already talking to his girlfriend on his cell. Meanwhile, Frank thought he’d figured out which room was Patrick’s and found out, to his joy, that the credit card thing totally worked.
~
It was a great show, and although he was sweaty and gross, Patrick felt on top of the world. He had a great band, he got hugged and patted on the back by his favorite people, and he spent about twenty minutes with a completely stunning stranger telling him that he was her favorite singer. Not bad, for a guy who spent most of his youth invisible. He didn’t believe her hyperbole, but it was kind of nice to hear, all the same.
Best of all, when everyone else started partying and hooking up, he had a motel room blocks away from everyone else. No security detail, either, although that had required a lot of sneaking around, bribery, and a couple of fortuitous distracting displays from Pete. Definitely a prank-free zone, Patrick thought, sighing happily while he undressed, throwing his show-clothes around randomly. His room was a little crappy, but the parking lot outside was silent, blocks from the downtown revelry. He hummed, wiggled his toes in the ugly-but-soft carpet, and headed into the bathroom to shower and brush his teeth.
~
He must have been waiting less than twenty minutes, but Frank had everything set up perfectly. The bathroom was actually pretty nice, shiny white tub, clean toilet, spotless towels, and he’d considered taking a shower himself. Good thing he hadn’t. He’d barely brushed his teeth, drunk a beer so as to have an empty bottle, and gotten himself positioned in the tub with a strategic towel blocking view of him before he heard Stump come into the outer room.
He lit the match.
~
The bathroom was a nice surprise, bright and clean-looking, with gleaming surfaces and plenty of towels. Sweet. Patrick set down his toothbrush and toothpaste, still humming “Calm before the Storm” and even dancing a little with relief at his brief respite from the rest of the tour.
It felt completely amazing to clean his teeth with unlimited water, and he scrubbed every tooth until it ached. He was rinsing when he smelled smoke, and heard a sputter. Then there were brilliant explosions and horrible noises and Patrick pretty much thought the end had come. He was on the floor with his hands over his head, curled into fetal position when his abused ears finally distinguished the hysterical laughter coming from the tub.
“I am going to kill you now,” said Patrick calmly.
Frank just laughed harder.
~
So apparently, when Patrick Stump said he was going to kill you? He meant it. Frank had been in plenty of fights during his somewhat-checkered high school career, and his street-fighting technique wasn’t too bad. But Stump had some kind of demonic power of making him laugh even while trying to choke him to death. It was pretty harsh.
The slipperiness of the tile probably saved Frank’s life. When the floor mat shot out from beneath their feet, Stump hit the wall with a pretty loud crack, and somehow Frank managed to roll on top as they crashed to the floor in a tangle of toothbrush and towel and flailing arms.
It… wasn’t actually a bad place to be, once his giggles wound down and while Patrick was still motionless with shock (or possibly a head injury). The body beneath him was warm and soft and Patrick’s neck smelled amazing. Frank couldn’t really help licking him.
He tasted good, too.
~
“Kill,” thought Patrick, “or maybe maim.” But what he actually said was, “Oooh,” and other more guttural noises. Frank’s knee between his own, the ringing in his head, and the agile tongue making it’s way up his jaw made it hard to concentrate.
“Maybe,” he finally choked out, “we could take this to the bed?” It was bound to be a more comfortable place to kill someone.
Frank had to help him up, but they finally did make it there.
~
Patrick was sweet like candy. He melted when Frank kissed him, he murmured, he sighed. Frank couldn’t get him naked fast enough, to taste that soft skin, suck him down and take his helpless thrust into his hungry throat, drink him when he came until Patrick’s moans turned into over-stimulated whimpers. Then Frank climbed over him, pants gaping, and rubbed off against Patrick’s soft belly until he couldn’t see anything, think anything. He came in pulses, staccato and sharp, that left him drained and spread across Patrick’s soft warmth.
He wasn’t aware he’d fallen asleep until much later, waking to soft snores in his ear and with his back chilled. Patrick was still incredibly warm underneath him and comfortable to sleep on, and he really didn’t want to move. He drifted for awhile, waking again to hot, wet kisses and moonlight on pale skin. Patrick in the dim night was all shadowed valleys and white curves, eyes dark and glistening. The sounds he made were low on the scale, a perfect counterpoint to the squeaking of the bedsprings when Frank made it all the way inside him.
~
“This is just sex,” said Patrick. “Don’t think I’m going to be pining over you, fuckwad.”
“I could really give a shit,” said Frank, slipping on a fresh condom. “I just want to get my dick in you again.” It felt even better the second time, Frank just slipping in and groaning with the pleasure of it. This round wasn’t any slower than the first, though Patrick at least got to come during it.
“It’s really good sex, though,” they said afterwards, maybe at the same time. That was in the brief lull before round four, which really, was a record for Patrick. Apparently not for Frank, though, because two hours and a brief doze later he moaned, “Fuck, I can’t believe this, I can’t be hard again,” around Patrick’s dick and also “one more time and it’ll be some kind of fucking record, Stump,” during their first sixty-nine.
Patrick regained consciousness when he could no longer incorporate the loud pounding into his dreams. Even semi-alert and sticky, with what must be half of Warped Tour trying to beat their way straight through the door, the sight of Frank with his round mouth slightly open in sleep made his dick twitch gamely. He still hated Frank, he was sure, but he wanted to hear Frank howl when he came again almost more than he wanted to be dressed before Pete found his way inside the room. Almost more, but not quite, so he (mostly) ignored the feel of their skin sliding together when he climbed over Frank in the general direction of his pants.
The door opened before he‘d quite managed to reach them, though.
~
Wentz looked comical, like he’d just been hit with a cartoon anvil. Frank half expected tiny birds and stars to start circling his head. Maybe little bats and unicorns.
The sun was bright in the room, and it had to be at least eleven o’clock. Undoubtedly the whole tour was looking for them, and they were probably in deep shit with their managers for missing wakeup call.
Frank thought to himself that it was one fucking beautiful morning. Patrick was banging into shit and cursing while he struggled to get his pants on, and seriously, who the hell thought it was a good idea to give Wentz a key? Or, and oh shit, Gerard. Because Gerard was looking over Pete’s shoulder with a stunned expression that wasn’t nearly as funny as Pete’s.
“Frank? Patrick? Why didn’t you, um, oh, right, fuck fuckity-shit fuck,” said Gerard, grabbing Pete’s shoulder and backing out of the door with a lot of clatter, like he couldn’t get his arms and legs to bend correctly. Adding, “We’ll just be, yeah, um, out here in the, the parking lot,” he closed the door. Pete gave a little squeak on the way out, but otherwise seemed pretty much shocked into submission.
Patrick gasped a little, his pants only partly on his legs, and fell onto his ass with a thump. Aside from traumatizing Gerard, Frank really had to chalk the morning up as a win. He leaned over the edge of the bed and stroked Patrick’s still-uncovered hair, which was as amazingly soft as he remembered. Maybe they had a few minutes before Wentz and Gee came back into the room?
~
The thing was, Frank was naked. He was naked, and pretty much completely beautiful, and he had tattoos *everywhere*, and damn. He moved pretty fast, too. So when the door opened again, Patrick was in the process of getting a hickey, and not really fighting.
Pete must have recovered a little, because Frank sort of flew for a moment, or at least it looked that way from Patrick’s horizontal position. Then he saw Gerard trying to dance with Pete, and no. Not dance, but wrestle his guitarist from Pete’s suddenly dangerous arms.
“Pete!” Patrick said. “Don’t break him! He’s a jerk, but he gives great head!”
That one seemed to be a show-stopper, and at least made Frank laugh. Pete just gaped at Patrick, and after a moment of chagrin at what his mouth could do when unattended by his brain, Patrick thought to pull his pants all the way up his legs. The relative quiet following his statement was desperately brief, however.
“What the fuck are you doing with my singer?” asked Pete, slightly calmer- for that moment. All of his attention was focused on Frank, which gave Patrick time to avoid everyone’s eyes and quietly freak out. Gerard still looked a bit shell-shocked, and he was blocking Frank from Pete with his body.
Frank rolled his eyes, and yeah. It was pretty obvious, so Patrick couldn’t blame him. But there was no need to upset Pete more than necessary, so before Frank could go into detail, Patrick interrupted.
“Look, we’re grown men here, and Frank and I have been, um, well, it was completely consensual, so back off now, Pete. The bus must be waiting, sorry for that, let me just get my hat and we can go.”
“Yeah, you might want to try a shower first,” said Gerard, looking at the ground and chewing on his lip.
“Right, right, um. Did you? Would you? Like to shower first, um. Frank?” Oh man, way to be suave.
“We could always shower together,” leered Frank, apparently completely unrepentant. Gerard made a noise, and Pete shifted a little on his feet, so Patrick just gasped out “No, no, you go right ahead, I know my hat is around here somewhere, okay.” And he really couldn’t look anyone in the eye again for a while. But that didn’t keep his gaze from fixating on Frank’s incredible ass as he slipped past on the way to the shower. Patrick wanted a shower himself more than anything except possibly the ability to rewind the last ten minutes for a do-over.
Gerard shuffled his feet a little, and grabbed Pete’s arm.
“Are you safe? Not going to attack anyone? Because, I think I’m going to go tell our manager that Frank hasn‘t been eaten by wolves.”
Pete silently shook his head, waving his hand in a “go on” gesture. After a moment’s eye contact, Gerard left, glancing once at Patrick over his shoulder with a puzzled and slightly constipated expression. The shower started up with a screech and a rattle. Otherwise, the room was oppressively quiet until Pete finally pounced, as Patrick had dreaded he would.
“Since when,” growled Pete, “have you liked guys?”
~
The rest of the day wasn’t quite as much fun, but Frank still felt pretty good about everything. It turned out the next venue was only a couple of hours away, so a delay was no big deal. The buses made good time, arrangements for parking went smoothly, and soon everyone was back in parking-lot-party mode.
Mikey kept shooting him strange looks, and once pulled him aside to have some sort of serious talk. But that worked out, since Mikey obviously had no idea what to say and they just sat in silence watching fans mill around the tents for a few minutes. Frank finally patted his shoulder and assured him that he had no intention of pursuing things further, so the guys could just relax and everything would be fine.
Mikey seemed okay with that. Nobody else seemed to even know anything out of the ordinary had happened besides Gerard, and they had a well-established routine of pretending things were fine until they actually were. Besides, Gerard went off with the Used as soon as the buses parked.
Frank avoided Fall Out Boy and their bus.
~
Joe kept watching him, and Patrick figured Pete had been talking to him. The way Pete himself had disappeared might be a bad sign, but Patrick appreciated the space. Andy acted exactly the same as usual, which meant nothing. If Andy were to find out he’d inherited a European kingdom and millions of dollars from the death of some unknown relative, nobody would know anything had changed until the palace security showed up to guard him.
Patrick avoided the MCR bus.
~
It happened again in Michigan. They didn’t have a room this time, and it hardly mattered. The venue had several hallways, and one of those had a cleaning closet which Patrick had found while avoiding Pete.
“Yeah, oh,” said Frank, “suck me, fuck.”
And then, “Are you, oh man that’s so hot, I’m gonna,” and then all anyone in the hall would have heard was a long, low moan with some echo on it.
They spent a couple of minutes afterwards tucking in and up and patting down. Then they glared at each other and bolted in opposite directions without further conversation. At least, Frank bolted; Patrick actually just walked kind of quickly. Frank couldn’t help grinning to himself, but yeah.
That was definitely it. No more close encounters of the Stump kind.
At least, for the moment.
~
It was a pretty short moment.
Fin
Make suggestions if you feel so moved! Any kind, and whether I follow them or not, I will definitely read them carefully and take your input seriously.
I actually think quite highly of both Mr. Iero and Mr. Stump, and their behavior in this story in no way reflects my view of their actual maturity levels, Frank in particular.
To the non-bandom folks on the flist: thanks for being so patient with my latest infatuation. I'm watching Fastlane and warming up to SG:A again this week, so there may be other content soon. In particular, I want to do a "Things I've Learned" in SGA RPS sometime this month. Suggestions or thoughts on the subject would be embraced.
Pull My… You Know What, Nevermind
Bandslash: My Chemical Romance crossover with Fall Out Boy
Pairing: Patrick Stump/Frank Iero
Summary: The Warped Tour hadn’t been going for long, but certain patterns were becoming obvious.
Author’s Notes: Any comments are welcome. Thanks to
fragilistikal for cleaning up messy grammar and for great plotting suggestions. Any loose ends are totally my fault. For the purposes of this story, both Patrick and Frank are, and have been, single throughout ‘05. And it’s not really funny, because it’s sad. But then again, it’s pretty funny how sad it is. This is not your beautiful romance.Click their names above to see pictures of the guys.
WARNING: this is wholly fictional, of course, and anybody who recognizes their own or a friend’s name in this should definitely not read it. I’m serious, Pete. And don’t let Gabe see it, either.
by stungunbilly
The first time Patrick saw Frank Iero, he was flying through the air. My Chemical Romance had just finished a set, and Frank literally bounded off the stage, leaping into the crowd and howling until the security guys hauled him back to where Pete, Mikey, Patrick and Gerard had been learning to talk to each other. Frank was smiling gleefully, covered in sweat and almost glowing. It was electric, and Patrick couldn’t help noticing Frank’s body under the wet white shirt, each muscle outlined by the almost see-through fabric.
“This is Frank,” said Gerard, with a proprietary smile Patrick recognized from Pete’s repertoire. “He’s our sparkliest princess.”
“Fuck you,” Frank cheerily replied, turning to Pete. “Hey man, you’re Wentz, right?” He held out a friendly hand to shake, sounding strangely deep-voiced and collected where Patrick had expected less maturity. They shook, and Frank turned to Patrick.
“You look kind of familiar too. What do you play?”
His grin was blinding, his face like artwork, his clothes the essence of punk rock. He was like every really cool kid Patrick had ever known in high school, like he had thought the Great Pete Wentz would be until they met.
Patrick disliked him immediately.
~
It was a fucking joke, but Patrick Stump was apparently an uptight asshole. Too bad, since Frank kind of wanted to fuck him right there on stage every time he watched him sing. But one little joke about Stump’s relative anonymity to the press and Frank had seen Patrick close up like a really fuck-able, but bitchy clam.
Wentz watched Patrick like a hawk, too, at least when he wasn’t drinking attention like fine whiskey. The Warped Tour hadn’t been going for long, but certain patterns were becoming obvious. Mikey and Pete were like best girlfriends, though Frank didn’t think they had anything going on below the belt. Gerard and Patrick were bonding over board games, and Bob, Ray, and Patrick spent way too much time in the back of the bus being music geeks. Andy and Joe were basically joined at the hip to their girlfriends, only around for the performances. But no matter what else was going on, Pete was never far from Patrick.
Stump didn’t really seem to notice. He was kind of out of it, sometimes, in his head and not seeming to see what was around him. It made Frank itch to pull pranks on him, so he did; spring-loaded snakes in his guitar case, sharpied messages on his exposed skin when he fell asleep, personal clothing items hung outside his tour bus. It was hilarious, the way he would get red, and stomp around, and wave his arms when he yelled.
It made Frank laugh and laugh, although Gerard seemed kind of pissed about it. He really liked Patrick, and he didn’t get why Frank didn’t. It wasn’t like Frank was really over wanting Gerard; he probably never would be, but he wasn’t going to let Gerard tell him who he could and couldn’t prank. No matter how many darkly disappointed looks Gerard flashed him.
Patrick was a tightly-wound dick, who happened to also have phenomenal talent and amazing skin, but plainly no sense of humor and not much of any other kind of sense. Gerard couldn’t see it, but Frank knew that Patrick Stump needed to be mocked. Frank was just the right man for the job.
Unfortunately, Wentz seemed like he might become a problem. He’d been friendly enough, and as long as the jokes were pretty minor league, he seemed to kind of enjoy them. But after the underwear incident, Stump’s incredible mouth had gone tense and he’d muttered instead of yelling while collecting his cute little boxer-briefs off the bus antenna. Pete had started looking at Frank with a bit of calculation in his eyes.
It was a little worrying. Frank thought about lying low, but that wasn’t his style. He had a box of bottle rockets that needed to be used, anyway, and tonight they were getting hotel rooms. Sudden noises tended to make Stump jump, and that was too much rhyming fun for Frank to pass up just because Patrick’s keeper was giving him the evil eye.
~
Patrick fucking *hated* Frank Iero.
He now had no clean underwear, and man, he really didn’t like snakes. It wasn’t like Frank had any reason to pick on him all the time; Patrick had never actually told Frank he couldn’t stand him. He didn’t fawn all over him, but he’d never been mean or *shunned* him or anything. Why did guys like Iero always want to fuck with guys like him?
Wasn’t it enough for the dude to be gorgeous, talented, and even witty? Couldn’t his cool be satisfied with being in one of the best bands around and being able to charm his way through life? How could humiliating one short, fat, balding dude make his life any better?
But it seemed like every time he dozed off, he woke up to something embarrassing written on his flesh; the last time, the words EAT ME had appeared on his stomach right over his belt. Patrick had honestly thought Pete would injure himself laughing when he saw it. Worse, Pete had basically hung all over him and given him about fifteen propositions, each one more lewd (and unlikely, damn it) than the last.
It had to stop. He’d spent some time talking to Gerard, trying to scout out Iero’s weaknesses, but they seemed to be primarily tendencies toward illness and accidental self-injury. Neither thing was something Patrick would inflict, even if he could, and anyway he couldn’t. It was very frustrating.
The rest of My Chemical Romance were all great guys, especially Gerard, Ray, and Bob, all of whom took music very seriously and were more than willing to share their awesome equipment. Mikey was nice, too, though he and Pete had their heads together all of the time recently, making it hard for Patrick to get to know the guy. Gerard had haltingly apologized for Frank’s tricks, patting Patrick on the back and looking chagrined until Patrick lied and told him it was fine, he could deal.
Iero, though, was a dickweed. Sometimes Patrick watched him on stage during MCR’s sets, wondering how a guy could spend that much energy playing (and radiating sex appeal, like a spotlight beaming slut rays at the audience) and still find time to fuck with another performer’s person and personal items. It wasn’t like Patrick had never been pranked before; having to wear clothes that smelled like Pete’s piss was one of the low points of his life to date, after all. But somehow most of the more unpleasant tricks were usually done by other people to other people. Nobody had ever personally targeted Patrick on previous tours.
Tonight he was going to get a real bed to sleep in, and possibly a chance to clean some of his abused underwear in the sink. He couldn’t wait, because the stress was making it hard to get enough rest. He would just have to make certain he and Frank didn’t get rooms anywhere near each other.
~
He tried not to jump when Trohman suddenly loomed out the shadows and grabbed his arm, but Frank couldn’t help it. The guy was usually so chill, calm and good-natured and mostly absent. Nobody expected to be accosted by him in the middle of an empty parking lot outside someone else’s motel room.
Joe shouldn’t even be here; the rest of the bands were staying at a nicer hotel three blocks away from this kind of crummy motel. The only way Frank had found out where Patrick was staying had been by bribing one of Pete’s creepy hangers-on. That had been weird, since apparently the guy was a huge fan and thought Frank’s onstage self-inflicted injuries were a sign that he and Frank were meant to be bffs.
Trohman had one seriously scary glare, especially when he kind of set his jaw and cut a look at the rockets in Frank’s hands. Frank might have squeaked, just a bit. He cleared his throat, swallowed the panicky feeling, and met Joe’s stare head on.
“What, dude?” he said, maybe a little aggressively.
“Look,” said Trohman, shaking his mane in clear agitation. “I don’t know if anyone has told you, or what, but. Nobody messes with Patrick. You just. Don’t do that, man. You just don’t.” He let go of Frank’s arms, and Frank stepped back. “I mean, I get it that you are just playing around, but you’re kind of getting to him.” He ran one of his big hands over his head, huffed. Stared some more.
Now Frank was pissed. He stood up on the balls of his feet, leaned forward, shaking his rocket-holding hand for emphasis. “If Stump has a problem with me, he can talk to me himself. What are you, his mother?”
Instead of getting back into his face, Joe kind of rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You don’t get it, *nobody* fucks with Patrick. You can get pissy all you want, but pretty much everyone has his back. You should be glad it’s me out here talking to you, and not Pete, or fuck, Andy.”
“So, what, his *posse* is going to kick my ass? That is so fucking lame, dude. It’s like second grade.”
Joe actually laughed at this. “Nobody’s going to kick your ass, Iero. You’re a little weasel sometimes, but I like you just fine when you aren’t upsetting my singer. I just would feel really sorry for a guy who has fifteen people putting him on top of the ‘to be fucked with’ list.”
This actually was a pretty valid threat. Frank knew his band would cover him, but even Bob would laugh if he became ground zero of the prank wars. Plus, Gerard was already pissed at him about messing with Stump. He sighed, and backed down. Fuck.
“Fuck,” he said. “Okay. But I have these great bottle rockets, and think how funny it would be if I could sneak into the bathroom and set them off.”
Joe perked up at that. He looked intrigued for a moment, then sighed regretfully. “Not happening, sorry. It, yeah, might be pretty funny,” and his eyes definitely held a wistful gleam, “but it’s been a rule since always, Iero. Patrick is pretty funny when you mess with him, but basically, we need him to not kill anyone or leave us to hang out with more mature people, so. No messing with the Stump.”
That basically sucked, especially since Frank actually liked Joe a lot and didn’t want to piss him off more than needed. But it was the work of minutes to persuade Joe that, yeah, he got it, and he’d totally mellow out on his singer. Then Joe was off, already talking to his girlfriend on his cell. Meanwhile, Frank thought he’d figured out which room was Patrick’s and found out, to his joy, that the credit card thing totally worked.
~
It was a great show, and although he was sweaty and gross, Patrick felt on top of the world. He had a great band, he got hugged and patted on the back by his favorite people, and he spent about twenty minutes with a completely stunning stranger telling him that he was her favorite singer. Not bad, for a guy who spent most of his youth invisible. He didn’t believe her hyperbole, but it was kind of nice to hear, all the same.
Best of all, when everyone else started partying and hooking up, he had a motel room blocks away from everyone else. No security detail, either, although that had required a lot of sneaking around, bribery, and a couple of fortuitous distracting displays from Pete. Definitely a prank-free zone, Patrick thought, sighing happily while he undressed, throwing his show-clothes around randomly. His room was a little crappy, but the parking lot outside was silent, blocks from the downtown revelry. He hummed, wiggled his toes in the ugly-but-soft carpet, and headed into the bathroom to shower and brush his teeth.
~
He must have been waiting less than twenty minutes, but Frank had everything set up perfectly. The bathroom was actually pretty nice, shiny white tub, clean toilet, spotless towels, and he’d considered taking a shower himself. Good thing he hadn’t. He’d barely brushed his teeth, drunk a beer so as to have an empty bottle, and gotten himself positioned in the tub with a strategic towel blocking view of him before he heard Stump come into the outer room.
He lit the match.
~
The bathroom was a nice surprise, bright and clean-looking, with gleaming surfaces and plenty of towels. Sweet. Patrick set down his toothbrush and toothpaste, still humming “Calm before the Storm” and even dancing a little with relief at his brief respite from the rest of the tour.
It felt completely amazing to clean his teeth with unlimited water, and he scrubbed every tooth until it ached. He was rinsing when he smelled smoke, and heard a sputter. Then there were brilliant explosions and horrible noises and Patrick pretty much thought the end had come. He was on the floor with his hands over his head, curled into fetal position when his abused ears finally distinguished the hysterical laughter coming from the tub.
“I am going to kill you now,” said Patrick calmly.
Frank just laughed harder.
~
So apparently, when Patrick Stump said he was going to kill you? He meant it. Frank had been in plenty of fights during his somewhat-checkered high school career, and his street-fighting technique wasn’t too bad. But Stump had some kind of demonic power of making him laugh even while trying to choke him to death. It was pretty harsh.
The slipperiness of the tile probably saved Frank’s life. When the floor mat shot out from beneath their feet, Stump hit the wall with a pretty loud crack, and somehow Frank managed to roll on top as they crashed to the floor in a tangle of toothbrush and towel and flailing arms.
It… wasn’t actually a bad place to be, once his giggles wound down and while Patrick was still motionless with shock (or possibly a head injury). The body beneath him was warm and soft and Patrick’s neck smelled amazing. Frank couldn’t really help licking him.
He tasted good, too.
~
“Kill,” thought Patrick, “or maybe maim.” But what he actually said was, “Oooh,” and other more guttural noises. Frank’s knee between his own, the ringing in his head, and the agile tongue making it’s way up his jaw made it hard to concentrate.
“Maybe,” he finally choked out, “we could take this to the bed?” It was bound to be a more comfortable place to kill someone.
Frank had to help him up, but they finally did make it there.
~
Patrick was sweet like candy. He melted when Frank kissed him, he murmured, he sighed. Frank couldn’t get him naked fast enough, to taste that soft skin, suck him down and take his helpless thrust into his hungry throat, drink him when he came until Patrick’s moans turned into over-stimulated whimpers. Then Frank climbed over him, pants gaping, and rubbed off against Patrick’s soft belly until he couldn’t see anything, think anything. He came in pulses, staccato and sharp, that left him drained and spread across Patrick’s soft warmth.
He wasn’t aware he’d fallen asleep until much later, waking to soft snores in his ear and with his back chilled. Patrick was still incredibly warm underneath him and comfortable to sleep on, and he really didn’t want to move. He drifted for awhile, waking again to hot, wet kisses and moonlight on pale skin. Patrick in the dim night was all shadowed valleys and white curves, eyes dark and glistening. The sounds he made were low on the scale, a perfect counterpoint to the squeaking of the bedsprings when Frank made it all the way inside him.
~
“This is just sex,” said Patrick. “Don’t think I’m going to be pining over you, fuckwad.”
“I could really give a shit,” said Frank, slipping on a fresh condom. “I just want to get my dick in you again.” It felt even better the second time, Frank just slipping in and groaning with the pleasure of it. This round wasn’t any slower than the first, though Patrick at least got to come during it.
“It’s really good sex, though,” they said afterwards, maybe at the same time. That was in the brief lull before round four, which really, was a record for Patrick. Apparently not for Frank, though, because two hours and a brief doze later he moaned, “Fuck, I can’t believe this, I can’t be hard again,” around Patrick’s dick and also “one more time and it’ll be some kind of fucking record, Stump,” during their first sixty-nine.
Patrick regained consciousness when he could no longer incorporate the loud pounding into his dreams. Even semi-alert and sticky, with what must be half of Warped Tour trying to beat their way straight through the door, the sight of Frank with his round mouth slightly open in sleep made his dick twitch gamely. He still hated Frank, he was sure, but he wanted to hear Frank howl when he came again almost more than he wanted to be dressed before Pete found his way inside the room. Almost more, but not quite, so he (mostly) ignored the feel of their skin sliding together when he climbed over Frank in the general direction of his pants.
The door opened before he‘d quite managed to reach them, though.
~
Wentz looked comical, like he’d just been hit with a cartoon anvil. Frank half expected tiny birds and stars to start circling his head. Maybe little bats and unicorns.
The sun was bright in the room, and it had to be at least eleven o’clock. Undoubtedly the whole tour was looking for them, and they were probably in deep shit with their managers for missing wakeup call.
Frank thought to himself that it was one fucking beautiful morning. Patrick was banging into shit and cursing while he struggled to get his pants on, and seriously, who the hell thought it was a good idea to give Wentz a key? Or, and oh shit, Gerard. Because Gerard was looking over Pete’s shoulder with a stunned expression that wasn’t nearly as funny as Pete’s.
“Frank? Patrick? Why didn’t you, um, oh, right, fuck fuckity-shit fuck,” said Gerard, grabbing Pete’s shoulder and backing out of the door with a lot of clatter, like he couldn’t get his arms and legs to bend correctly. Adding, “We’ll just be, yeah, um, out here in the, the parking lot,” he closed the door. Pete gave a little squeak on the way out, but otherwise seemed pretty much shocked into submission.
Patrick gasped a little, his pants only partly on his legs, and fell onto his ass with a thump. Aside from traumatizing Gerard, Frank really had to chalk the morning up as a win. He leaned over the edge of the bed and stroked Patrick’s still-uncovered hair, which was as amazingly soft as he remembered. Maybe they had a few minutes before Wentz and Gee came back into the room?
~
The thing was, Frank was naked. He was naked, and pretty much completely beautiful, and he had tattoos *everywhere*, and damn. He moved pretty fast, too. So when the door opened again, Patrick was in the process of getting a hickey, and not really fighting.
Pete must have recovered a little, because Frank sort of flew for a moment, or at least it looked that way from Patrick’s horizontal position. Then he saw Gerard trying to dance with Pete, and no. Not dance, but wrestle his guitarist from Pete’s suddenly dangerous arms.
“Pete!” Patrick said. “Don’t break him! He’s a jerk, but he gives great head!”
That one seemed to be a show-stopper, and at least made Frank laugh. Pete just gaped at Patrick, and after a moment of chagrin at what his mouth could do when unattended by his brain, Patrick thought to pull his pants all the way up his legs. The relative quiet following his statement was desperately brief, however.
“What the fuck are you doing with my singer?” asked Pete, slightly calmer- for that moment. All of his attention was focused on Frank, which gave Patrick time to avoid everyone’s eyes and quietly freak out. Gerard still looked a bit shell-shocked, and he was blocking Frank from Pete with his body.
Frank rolled his eyes, and yeah. It was pretty obvious, so Patrick couldn’t blame him. But there was no need to upset Pete more than necessary, so before Frank could go into detail, Patrick interrupted.
“Look, we’re grown men here, and Frank and I have been, um, well, it was completely consensual, so back off now, Pete. The bus must be waiting, sorry for that, let me just get my hat and we can go.”
“Yeah, you might want to try a shower first,” said Gerard, looking at the ground and chewing on his lip.
“Right, right, um. Did you? Would you? Like to shower first, um. Frank?” Oh man, way to be suave.
“We could always shower together,” leered Frank, apparently completely unrepentant. Gerard made a noise, and Pete shifted a little on his feet, so Patrick just gasped out “No, no, you go right ahead, I know my hat is around here somewhere, okay.” And he really couldn’t look anyone in the eye again for a while. But that didn’t keep his gaze from fixating on Frank’s incredible ass as he slipped past on the way to the shower. Patrick wanted a shower himself more than anything except possibly the ability to rewind the last ten minutes for a do-over.
Gerard shuffled his feet a little, and grabbed Pete’s arm.
“Are you safe? Not going to attack anyone? Because, I think I’m going to go tell our manager that Frank hasn‘t been eaten by wolves.”
Pete silently shook his head, waving his hand in a “go on” gesture. After a moment’s eye contact, Gerard left, glancing once at Patrick over his shoulder with a puzzled and slightly constipated expression. The shower started up with a screech and a rattle. Otherwise, the room was oppressively quiet until Pete finally pounced, as Patrick had dreaded he would.
“Since when,” growled Pete, “have you liked guys?”
~
The rest of the day wasn’t quite as much fun, but Frank still felt pretty good about everything. It turned out the next venue was only a couple of hours away, so a delay was no big deal. The buses made good time, arrangements for parking went smoothly, and soon everyone was back in parking-lot-party mode.
Mikey kept shooting him strange looks, and once pulled him aside to have some sort of serious talk. But that worked out, since Mikey obviously had no idea what to say and they just sat in silence watching fans mill around the tents for a few minutes. Frank finally patted his shoulder and assured him that he had no intention of pursuing things further, so the guys could just relax and everything would be fine.
Mikey seemed okay with that. Nobody else seemed to even know anything out of the ordinary had happened besides Gerard, and they had a well-established routine of pretending things were fine until they actually were. Besides, Gerard went off with the Used as soon as the buses parked.
Frank avoided Fall Out Boy and their bus.
~
Joe kept watching him, and Patrick figured Pete had been talking to him. The way Pete himself had disappeared might be a bad sign, but Patrick appreciated the space. Andy acted exactly the same as usual, which meant nothing. If Andy were to find out he’d inherited a European kingdom and millions of dollars from the death of some unknown relative, nobody would know anything had changed until the palace security showed up to guard him.
Patrick avoided the MCR bus.
~
It happened again in Michigan. They didn’t have a room this time, and it hardly mattered. The venue had several hallways, and one of those had a cleaning closet which Patrick had found while avoiding Pete.
“Yeah, oh,” said Frank, “suck me, fuck.”
And then, “Are you, oh man that’s so hot, I’m gonna,” and then all anyone in the hall would have heard was a long, low moan with some echo on it.
They spent a couple of minutes afterwards tucking in and up and patting down. Then they glared at each other and bolted in opposite directions without further conversation. At least, Frank bolted; Patrick actually just walked kind of quickly. Frank couldn’t help grinning to himself, but yeah.
That was definitely it. No more close encounters of the Stump kind.
At least, for the moment.
~
It was a pretty short moment.
Fin
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