❥ ּ֯ ┆Gerard Way ᵎᵎ

ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴇʀᴏ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇʜᴏʟᴅ 𝟮𝟬𝟬𝟯

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Throbbing, charcoal-bellied clouds hung low over the rooftops, pressing down on the street like a heavy lid. The afternoon light bleeds into a bruised, metallic purple. Street lamps buzz into life earlier than usual, casting small, hazy puddles of yellow light onto the glistening, rain-slicked pavements, while a brisk breeze sends fallen leaves skittering across the manicured lawns. The atmosphere was calm and still, perfectly muting the usual daytime hustle into a quiet, peaceful lull that makes the indoors feel incredibly inviting—Well, it was quiet. A jagged wall of bass guitar and crashing cymbals sliced through the midday calm. The noise was an aggressive, unapologetic intruder in a neighbourhood otherwise defined by the gentle rustle of birch trees. Every brutal cord progression echoed off the hard, hallow walls of the garage, transforming a sanctuary haven into an unwilling front-row seat at a deafening concert. However, you'd gotten more than used to the ruckus and chaos.

Frank had been apart of My Chemical Romance for around a year or two, all because his previous band flopped and Gerard had offered him the spot as their bassist, since they were coincidentally signed to the same music agency. Ever since then, Gee, Frank, Ray, Mikey and Matt all became best buddies. To the point they were literally inseparable. The boys would venture to your house basically every weekend, set up their gear in the garage and practise throughout the whole day, rolling into the late hours. They’d absolutely sweat their asses off at their instruments, and Gerard would sing his heart out until his vocal cords near collapsed. As a reward, they’d either get so drunk they couldn’t function no matter how hard they tried, or get so baked they couldn't stand up or just fall asleep. You couldn't be too mad at Frank, he was old enough to do whatever he pleased. And you didn't have a problem with his friends, no matter how bad of an influence they were… But, there was one boy in particular, and he seemed to take a liking to you. An almost obsessive liking.

Gerard.

He thought you were genuinely the hottest woman he'd ever seen in his life. Mikey, Ray and Matt agreed you were a certified milf, but they weren't as obsessed as he was. He'd always, always bring you up any chance he got, expressing in detail how badly he yearned for you and wanted to fuck your brains out. The others backed him up, assuming they were only crude jokes—Little did they know how deadly serious he was being. Frank hated his perverted comments, it got on his nerves having to endure Gee constantly blabbering about his own mom in such a dirty way. The fact he did it sober as well showed he truly had no shame. He was a fucking creep.

It was a Saturday, and as usual, the guys had rocked up to the Iero Household. They'd spent all day abusing their instruments in the garage. By the end of their session, they were all dripping with sweat, their limbs were aching & their temples were pulsating from their intense tunes. But it was all worth it. They were all sat on the floor, and thank God for Ray Toro, he’d brought a tall bottle of whiskey for all of them to share as a treat for finishing up practise for the week. And after slamming back a load of mouthfuls, Gerard was totally sloshed, as well as the others. During his drunken state, he kept spitting crude jokes about fucking you as normal. At some point, he excused himself to go to the bathroom. The guys thought he was heading off to throw up all the liquor he’d consumed. But that obviously wasn’t the case.

He staggered out the garage, plodding down the corridor and passing by the restroom. The world tilted on a dizzying axis, turning the hallway into a funhouse of melting edges. Doorways rippled and stretched like mirages, requiring exaggerated, heavy-footed and deliberate strides just to navigate the undulating floorboards. His fingertips trailed against the wallpaper, acting as a steadying lifeline and preventing his knees from buckling beneath him. He drifted into the kitchen—ricochetting off the doorframe—on a cloud of stubborn determination and fluorescent blindness. Through his hazed vision, he spotted a figure in front of the sink. You, Miss. Iero. His sight tunnelled until you were the only bright, vibrating pixel in a blurry universe. His eyes scanned over you, lingering for far too long on your ass before tracking upward, staring at your waistline and then the back of your head.

"M-iss… I-Iero..?" He stammered, the consonants slipping through his lips like wet clay. He took slow, clumsy steps toward you, the corners of his lips curving into a crooked, drunken grin. "H-iiii, se-sex-yy… W-Whaddya doin'?~" His tongue briefly poked out to lick his chapped lips as his gaze lowered down onto your behind yet again.