Demolition Lovers (Frerard)

3: The Cock Artist Leaves His House And It Has Questionable Consequences

Frank Iero had very quickly come to the conclusion that he hated Gerard Way, and also that he functioned terribly after waking up without the aid of some sort of narcotic substance, but he did of course soon put a fix to that, and as soon as his whole world started to spin, he knew he was ready to earn his money for the day, and then after this guy, he'd go and get some more weed off that guy downstairs to celebrate, because this guy tipped like hell, and maybe, he even tipped well enough that Frank might even care to learn his name, but of course that was still eternally a long shot.

The twenty four year old despised intimacy like the plague, and much preferred intimacy in a physical manner of a cock in his ass and not a word said about it, and perhaps even without the exchange of names if unnecessary.

And he'd even stretch as far to say that he loved his 'job', because sex was no trouble, especially when you were good in bed, and really when Frank thought about, people were paying him to orgasm. Although, of course, this kind of business came with disgusting freaks and weirdos, but they were usually the type which paid more, and for that Frank pushed any thoughts of regret aside, because at the very least, he wasn't homeless at twenty fucking four.

Not that his family would be all that pleased if they could see him now at all, but the one thing he knew that they should be proud of him for was still not being homeless, and that was how proving his father wrong had become his only goal in life.

Frank Iero Snr. had told his son that he'd end up homeless the very day the eighteen year old at the time, got his first tattoo done, and of course, Frank was a fucking stubborn piece of shit and had from then on dedicated his life to having the last laugh - not that he fancied being homeless under any circumstance.

The twenty four year old pulled his shirt off, after he ensured that his front door was locked - he wasn't going to pull a 'Gerard Way', and still seriously, that guy just wouldn't leave his mind: there was something about that odd naivety and shyness of his that had Frank enthralled and intrigued from day one, and really, Gerard would never be Frank's kind of guy, but he was cute... kind of... and Frank Iero wasn't the kind of guy to say 'no' to sex with anyone.

But, then again, Frank didn't really have a kind of guy at all... Frank didn't really date at all - he'd just fucked, and he just survived, and he didn't make friends - not really. He just had clients and dealers and the people he could manipulate into making his life just that little bit easier, so with that, he pulled his jeans off and rid his mind of twenty eight year old, unlocking the door, and waiting on his bed for his client to arrive, because really, there was nothing that cleared his head like fucking some guy that he didn't even know the name of.

And as he laid out upon the bed, he wondered if maybe he should have drugged himself up just a little bit more, because his head had stopped spinning long ago, and was filled with those stupid thoughts of his family and what he was doing with his life and the 'artist' next door, but it was all too late for that as the door opened and his client walked in - only a smile and a nod exchanged between the two of them as dollar bills were placed upon the dresser and he joined Frank on his bed.

"Good day, Iero?" The client asked, leaving Frank with the thought that possibly now would be a perfect time to remember this guy's name, despite the fact that he was in absolutely no mood for small talk and would rather they just got straight to business.

"Not really." The twenty four year old shrugged it off, running his hands under the guy's shirt, pulling it over his head with a shrug of his shoulders as he continued to pray that their awkward small talk wouldn't be furthered and that he'd be satisfied with what he came for - a fuck, and only that.

"What's wrong, huh?" He furrowed his brows, catching Frank's gaze, and stopping them in what was probably the most awkward moment the not quite prostitute had ever found himself in.