mimiwantstodie

frank iero worms

[f-rnkiero]

hey i’m mimi! she/her, 19.

i created this blog to swoon over frank iero and write about him :) so it will be frank only (at least until i feel confident enough to write about the other members)

i won’t be thinking too much before posting here tbh so if you want more serious works you should check my AO3!

work(s) on AO3:

Lost Stars - Frank/Female Reader - slow burn, mutual pining - chapters: 16/17. words: 68.891

[yumms-t]

Pages on Twitter

Previous | Next

Pt. 1 / 3

DD warnings: Creeping from Frank. Age gaps (Sue me). Objectifying–but he feels bad about it. Daddy Kink (Shoot me).

AN: I struggled so much writing this. I have no idea why.

WC: 3.1k

Twitter fan pages have always been a thing. You were warned at the start of your contract with the band that any small thing you did or presented to the public would probably end up getting one.  

Gerard and Ray had agreed not to involve themselves in them years ago–and advised you to do the same. Mikey and Frank, on the other hand, have gotten their fair share of fan discourse popping up on their feeds. From invasive research into their private life, to lewd talk involving them–they’ve seen it all. 

Frank, especially, has seen it all. Which brings him to his latest dilemma: how in the hell will he keep this dirty, perverse secret in check and away from the eyes of thousands of over-analyzing fans?

And you?

His newfound addiction had started two months before the start of their 2025 tour and three years after your official welcoming into the band while scrolling through Twitter in his room, alone. 

It’s not like he meant to stumble across the profile that would inevitably end up ruining his perception of you. The name just stuck out to him–piqued his curiosity to see if it truly contained what it advertised. With trembling fingers, he’d found himself clicking on it against his better judgment, eyes immediately greeted with a mouth-watering sight. 

Its bio read: “Here to appreciate MCR’s prettiest member!” And a bio like that would usually mean cute pictures of you from gushing fans, but it contained nothing but creep shots of you and your panties. 

Everywhere. 

All five hundred-plus photos shared, liked, reposted, or replied to were of zoomed-in pictures of your ass and underwear—the occasional bra and midriff peekage here and there, but primarily, your ass and legs. 

It was weird for him to creep on you the way he was–and he knew better than that. The page should’ve been completely off-limits for him. Anyone, really, but he couldn’t stop himself from scrolling further and further down–a weird combination of guilt and desire eating at him from the inside out and making his cock ache for you. 

He couldn’t bring himself to peel his eyes away from you after looking through the first few pictures–as if he were trapped by the sheer intoxicating taboo-ness of his actions. Just looking at the way the soft parts of your lower body bounced from your movements on stage while playing stirred something awake in him he hadn’t felt in ages. 

It wasn’t like he had trouble getting laid, but it had been a while since the last time he was able to toss a pretty girl like you around for his own pleasure. So the pictures he was seeing now, combined with months of not having anyone keeping him proper company, fueled his need to delve deeper–aroused and desperate from knowing all of the new (albeit heinous) material he now had at his disposal. 

Of his co-worker (technically employee) of all people!

Frank spent some time genuinely trying to look through everything without getting too distracted in trying to make himself finish, only stopping himself intermittently to perv a bit and appreciate your features. He squeezed the tip of his half-hardened cock through his pants and shivered from the intense build-up, cursing to himself for being so eager and coming to a stop when he’d realized he’d reached the end of the page. 

It was a struggle ignoring the painful throbs radiating from his dick while taking a moment to appreciate the profile’s oldest picture; you, three years younger, and on your first tour with them. 

A small smile formed on his lips as he remembered just how nervous you’d been before entering the stage. Doing jumping jacks after being instructed by Gee to do them. You were so cute back then. 

He was starting to feel like a loser for not ever taking notice of your attractiveness until then. Like, just how old a man was he truly to no longer appreciate a good pair of sexy panties right in front of him? All those Instagram posts he liked and commented on, where you sometimes showed a bit more skin, had just gone to waste.

There was once a time he did just that (give people something to drool over). He had done and posted the same things you were doing, and now couldn’t tell when people his age (back then) were thirst-trapping fans. 

The light mourn for his youth didn’t last long. The need to do something about his chubbed cock had become too intense to keep ignoring–and the pictures loaded on his screen continued to erase all traces of human decency that would’ve otherwise stopped him from reaching back down. 

With his right hand halfway down his softened torso, he took a moment to prepare himself mentally for what he was about to do. Remembering to put his phone on Do Not Disturb, he made light work of shoving his pants down his legs and onto some corner in his room–forgotten as soon as his eyes landed back on your thighs. 

The tip of his cock–which was still confined to his dirtied briefs–pressed deliciously tight on a bigening, dark, wet patch. 

Twenty minutes of unrelenting edging had passed with no signs of stopping from Frank before he’d even realized. In all honesty, there should have been a level of embarrassment from him for the amount of time he’d spent touching himself to you. 

He’d learned he liked the feeling of his AC hitting him directly on his self-lubed-up dick. For every time it started back up again, an intense shudder ripped out of him and more clear liquid dribbled out; thick right hand coming up to gather as much as possible before spreading it all the way down his base, squeezing himself and hyper-focusing on the wet sounds he was making. 

The cool sensation he felt on his lower half felt completely opposite to his face. Heat radiated from his cheeks and chest to color his skin a nice pink hue every time he delved deeper into his fantasies. Going down on himself while imagining fucking your face; spitting inside your mouth before shoving himself back inside, depriving you of oxygen until you were red and wet from saliva and precum spilling out your lips. 

There was nothing he could compare to the way your fucked-out face made him feel. Gooning his mind out, while looking at pictures of your thighs. Soft, supple skin uncovered by shorts so short that everyone positioned directly behind you was able to see the pattern of your underwear. 

He wondered if you’d let him dress you in tighter shorts for him to stuff his face in between your legs after the end of every concert. Just imagining himself eating your cunt out through the denim was making him salivate and feel rabid. 

The precum that was oozing and making a mess on his fingers had brought back memories of when he was in his early twenties. Huffing and whimpering while rubbing himself against a stranger’s body; sturdy, dexterous fingers from years of playing guitar pulling out sweet chips from anyone. He could remember it clearly, how the energy he carried back then coursed through his body and gave him the ability to leave his partners very satisfied.

He’d briefly debated on whether he should leave Twitter and actually search for a porn site or something. At least that way, he’d be able to feel better about himself–no longer worked up from such a common article of clothing being visible. 

Watching porn videos would have for sure been ten times more ethical than perving on a co-worker. Someone significantly younger than him, too young for him to be thinking such things about. 

Everything about you was driving him crazy; the way the fat on your legs jiggled every time you stomped on your foot pedal–how he’d love to have them squeezing the life out of him as he ate you out, shoving his tongue in and out of you before slipping the tip of his dick inside you, pulling out just to swipe his wet tip on your favorite lacey undergarments. He knew they’d give the head some extra friction whilst he rutted himself “into” you, folding you all different sorts of ways for his cock to reach your cervix and abuse your cun–No! He couldn’t let himself think that far, lest he wanted to wind up getting rock hard in front of you from then on. 

Another ten minutes had passed with no signs of stopping from him. If Frank had put a timer on, he would’ve for sure beaten his personal record for most time spent masturbating. 

All moral plans he’d had to have a random woman on the web help his predicament had gone out the window and been replaced with you immediately after delving deeper into that icky, perverse part of your fan base. 

The original page he’d found followed two other, notably popular, accounts. One, filled with videos of zoom-ins of your legs, ass, or tits as you moved around. And the other, focused on drawing you in compromising positions. Everything he was seeing would have–at one point–gone against all that he believed in, but the art style was just realistic enough for him to imagine everything posted was a real picture of you

He’d felt completely grossed out with himself. Objectifying and reducing you to levels he never thought possible, and actually getting off on it, was just so wrong. And yet, he couldn’t help the soft pants that escaped his lips every time he exerted himself, right hand flying up and down his shaft and gripping his base until reaching the top again. Slightly twisting his hand at his tip to gather precum and smear it back down on himself. Whines dedicated to you interrupted his–usually–quiet house every time he clicked between a new drawing or video. 

The pattern had eventually loosened something in his brain and turned him stupid. Somewhere in his daze for you, he had thought it a great idea to set his phone face up on his bed while he kneeled in front of it–leaky tip aimed directly at his screen where you were, ready to take his load. He moaned out your name, calling out for you as if you were really there and murmuring all of the nasty things he’d want you to do to him. 

The feeling he felt, being on top of you and having absolute control over you to role-play his pervert fantasies, made him feel euphoric. Like he’d taken one of the best, addictive drugs on the market. 

His attention was zeroed in on your legs–oh, how he loved them so much now–, how they expanded in size every time you took your seat. The vigor with which they shook every time you hopped up and down the stage stairs, he could now picture them perfectly wrapping around his head, shaking from having to support yourself if he ever had the opportunity to bend you over, bully his cock into your cunt, and force you to back yourself up on it while he played with your clit. Mixing his precum and your arousal inside your cunt until everything eventually leaked out and coated the inside of your thighs, cooling them down from his insistent smacks and making your skin sticky for him to clean up later. 

In some of the higher-quality videos, he was able to see the sweat dripping down your cleavage, dampening your clothes to make them stick tighter on you and appear more transparent. They’d left him weeping and mourning the idea of never being able to taste your salty-sweet, post-show skin. He’d never be able to drag his tongue up your mound to your belly button until reaching your tits. Never be inhale your intoxicating scent before popping a nipple into his mouth, making sure to maintain eye contact with you as he sucked on it and pinch the other. 

He was so close to what he wanted, a new wave of pleasure making its way up his spine until forcing a shivering moan out of him every few seconds. A thick film of sweat had long since formed across his entire body, cooling sticky on his skin, making the whole experience seem a tad more debouched. 

Frank’d heard about cum tributes before–had seen them actually. Up until that night, he never thought himself capable of such things. No lady, past or present, had ever been able to make him submit as much as a couple of pictures of you were doing. 

But humans are weak to desire and oftentimes hypocritical. He had become especially weak then, no longer giving a single fuck about how fucked up the content that caused drool to drip down his mouth and onto his bedsheets was. All he could focus on was the feeling of his right hand going up and down his reddened cock, squeezing intermittently to simulate your greedy cunt and grunting from how hard he was. 

As soon as he felt himself unale to hold back any longer, he abandoned the idea of scrolling through the rest of the videos on the first account to go through the second one. Scrolling through many pictures of you in all sorts of positions until finding the perfect one. 

Thankfully, his brain still had half the decency not to like anything just yet before he’d picked himself a pretty realistic drawing of you, towering over him on his phone, and wearing a skimpy skirt with cute white and blue cotton panties. He’d let out a pathetic groan as soon as his eyes focused on the very obvious wet patch in the middle of your panties, taunting him and making him rest his head on his shoulder for a second. 

That post had been one of the “special” ones; Frank had come to find out that for every milestone reached, an audio of somebody else would be attached to the photo to simulate what everyone–including himself–could only imagine to be your whimpers and begs. 

The voice had been close enough to yours to feel real, which made him circle back to what sort of noises you’d make. How you’d sound when wrapped up in your own hedonistic indulgences to make yourself feel good.

Incoherent mumbles had begun spilling out of his lips every time a new glob of precum dripped out of him and added to the mess on his hands and sheets. Apologies, begs, and “pleases” were muttered over and over again as the muscles on his back had begun to flex painfully and the bones in his body creaked from holding himself up for too long. Thinking back to that night, he supposed he should’ve been grateful for the months of exercise and endurance training he’d done by that point, knowing he wouldn’t have been able to last as long as he had if it wasn’t because of it. 

He apologized to you for his depravity, pitifully promising you that his actions were ones of loneliness. What he’d been doing would be nothing more than a “one-time thing”. But even he didn’t believe himself then; if he had meant what he said, he wouldn’t have been fisting his tip, slicking his greying hair up with sweat and skin riddled with goosebumps.  

He begged for the imaginary version of you to let him cum all over you. On your tits, ass, stomach, cunt, face–it didn’t matter, “let me cum all over those cute American Sweetheart panties, baby,” he’d groaned, eyes watering from overstimulation. Let me smear everything that comes out of me all over your ass, sweetheart. I’ll mark you as my fucking property.

And “pleases” to let him touch you. To let him hold you tight and give you the same amount of pleasure (imaginary) you had given him that night. If you ever were to give him the chance to do the things he was doing to you right now in his mind, he didn’t know if he could trust himself to finish outside. The risk of doing something that stupid, having your velvet walls contract all over him as he finished, made him accidentally finish faster than he’d meant to. 

At that time, he couldn’t think about the consequences of his actions and how they would affect his relationship with you. Especially when they had him aim his reddened cock straight at your cunt, aiming perfectly for his spunk to hit the center of it with concerning precision. 

“Yes, yes…oh god–fuck!” Electric volts were running wildly throughout his veins, “haah, haah…fuck, yes, yes, yes..Just like that, baby… “ he trailed off, eyes squeezing shut together as his unoccupied hand reached for the back of his head, pulling firmly on strands of hair, “oh, you're so–you're so fucking good for daddy.” He was talking to no one, “pull on my–sweetheart please…please pull on my hair. Make, ugh, make daddy feel good.” 

His mouth fell open at the idea of you pushing him down onto a hotel’s carpet floor, forcing his face into your cunt, using his tongue to get yourself off, and letting him inhale your intoxicating smell after concerts. Switching positions with him as soon as he made you finish. 

He shouted one last obscenity before tugging at himself one last time, shallow breaths dizzying him and making his high feel all the more intense. Energy depleted and body sprawled all over his ruined bed, his dirty phone lay by his side, still playing your fake moans out loud. 

Stupid, small, “I love you’s” spilled out of him in his drunken state as he imagined you by his side, your skin glowing from sweat, and post-fucked smile radiant in his dimly-lit room. You were gorgeous in his mind. 

 

Post-nut clarity had hit him like a bitch, swirling thoughts of you after finding out what he’d done, and being so disgusted with him you’d threaten to leave made him cringe at his actions and focus back to his phone. 

Shamefully, he began to clean up, wiping away any spunk that’d gotten on his phone and skin before throwing himself back down on his mattress. They’d be washed later.  

The guilt and shame made it hard for him to text you for the remaining few months before your tour began. However, they didn’t make it hard enough to keep him from following all three accounts (the original one he’d found his new favorite photos in, the one with the hundreds of downloadable videos, and the art one) on his secret account. 

Just for future reference.

[f-rnkiero]

#god

[tispityshesawhoreee]

Hey, so, I saw your recent post about mcr related stuff and I was wondering about FtWillz? I love Frank, but I don't know much about this particular thing and his poetry

Oh, thank you for this ask babes because I am unapologetically rabid about everything FtWillz. This one might be a bit long, brace yourself

First of all, FtWillz is Frank Iero. It’s not ‘speculated’, it’s not ‘hinted at’, it’s not ‘alleged’. Ftwillz is Frank and it’s been in the open since 2013. Unless you’d rather he be a shameless plagiarising liar, of course. But I’ll touch upon that a bit later.

A little preface:

In the mid-to-late 00s, Frank had a record label, Skeleton Crew, that he ran with Jamia & friends. You can still access their website through the good old Wayback machine, its skeletoncrewonline.com.

Some info about the label from its MySpace page

The members' nicknames are funny as hell, Cerebellum - Latin for "little brain", Dendrite (spelled incorrectly) - tree-like extension of neurons that receives information and Medulla (the one I’m losing right now) Oblongata - long stem-like structure inferior to Cerebellum. Thanks for the vivid illustration of power dynamics, Frankie. That was fun!

Moving on from the hilarity, Skeleton Crew is where we first discover FtWillz.

And here you can see the layout of his works

FtWillz also had a MySpace page where he, of course, posted his poetry that you can access here.

Now, If you’re even tangentially familiar with ‘Frank is Ftwillz’ speculation then you’ll know about this infamous screenshot, no doubt. As this little thing is responsible for around 97% of ‘Frank and Jamia were swingers/had an open relationship’ rumours. Our dear author is naughty like that

Finally, for the real fun part!! Poetry!

Please note that poems written on soiled parchment background were posted on the Skeleton Crew website, everything else was posted on either MySpace or Livejournal.

Ta-ta-ta, i won’t analyse anything but I will say this.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Genius! GENIUS GENIUS GENIUS GENIUS GENIUS!

His poetry invokes a very specific vision of a court jester, a king’s fool draped in garish clothes that hang loose from his frame as he, trying to catch his breath, stands at the very centre of a town square, a cornered animal pierced by a thousand eyes and, facing all of them, both young and old, in his last stand he sneers, ripping his garments, finding his chest and slicing it wide open, then digging deep, then digging deeper still, rough fingers soaked in fever of his blood that , dripping, fills the grainy gaps between grey cobblestones beneath his feet. And then he finds it, then he rips it out, thrumming red hot in his gaunt, greying hand. And, smiling, proud, he shows it to the world, as countless hungry eyes devour his gift - his beating, living heart. And then he falls.

Having had my little moment here, I want to say that I unironically consider Ftwillz to be a contemporary genius poet. He should have a book published already, he absolutely must. Oh well, here’s praying, hypnotising, pleading, hoping - whatever works

Now, time for something even more fun! Remember how I mentioned that it’s confirmed that Frank is Ftwillz?

It’s 2013 and we’re on Frank Iero’s very own website. What ever do we find there?

Reminds you of something? Perhaps a poem that was posted by one very prominent MySpace-er on April 4, 2008?

How about this one?

Signed with his own name, by the way!

In short, come 2013, Frank would post several revised Ftwillz poems (you can compare them poem-to-poem to spot the slight changes he’d made) to his own website, once again, signed with his own name.

So, whats the conclusion? Is Mr. Iero nothing more than a dull, uninspired plagiarist? Or was he just posting his own works, now adjusted for however he was feeling at the time (remember, the official announcement of MCR breaking up came out March 21, 2013) Oh, what a time to be alive.

P. S. There was a tumblr blog @f-t-willz-must-die-blog that was posting poetry in similar style but wether it was Frank himself or, what is more likely, an anonymous inspired devotee of his is largely debated and, to this day, unknown.

P. P. S. If you’d like to dig even deeper or, perhaps, you want to try and find even more Ftwillz info, I cannot recommend you this, this and also this by @earlycuntsets enough. Shoutout to whoever runs it, you're a gem.

[cemeterydrrve]

击̸. he's so adorable omg

[infectiouspiss]

loser

[makhopemustdie]

Are you fucking kidding me? I’m about to pass out at my fucking job.

Im gnawing at the bars of my enclosure.

LET ME OUT.

[f-rnkiero]

wanna … wanna kill him

[makhopemustdie]

Fat dad frank actually drives me INSANE I need to latch onto those tits like a leech. My god his arms. His tummy. Good fucking god. I'm a firm believer of short-but-thick dick iero because that is so hot to me. When I see twink iero (2000-2010) I wanna break him but dilf iero, my god. My desire for dilf iero actually makes me feel unwell. I need him viscerally I don't even know how I just Need to see that man naked fuckkkk dude imagine all his tattoos I'm fucking drooling over here

Have you seen the picture of him being tattooed? You can clearly see his tits and it leaves me dripping in my panties every time.

Sucking Frank backstage while he changes for b-stage.

On your knees, making him whine and rut into you. Letting him cum all over your face.

Letting him lick it off and spit it back into your mouth, making you swallow it.

Telling you he’s going to fuck that pussy dumb later.

Fuuuuuuuck.

I wanna be Franks controversially young girlfriend that he fucks every night. Filling me up, trying to breed me and get me pregnant so he can brag to everyone about how he knocked me up.

[fobfurries]

okay my partner and i absolute LOVEEE the shop au frank and jamia 🙏🙏🙏 this is me requesting more pretty please with a cherry on top 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

When the boys catch you simping too hard for your wife 🤭 thank you for the support in 2025, see you next year 💕

[cryobabiess]

okay, hear me out. dirty ass bullets era orange mohawk frank x stoner reader. frank is touring with the band, but they scrap up some cash and make a pit stop. maybe buy some snacks, really treat themselves. they're in a small town far from jersey with a huge hardcore scene, maybe in massachusetts or something (i know it's boring but they have so many bands there...). you're working night shift at a convenience store, i'm picturing like a 7/11. u drive a beat up car. ur shoes r scuffed as hell. ur parents aren't entirely happy abt how u carry urself. anyway, the band goes to the register to pay, frank asks if he can get a pack of cigarettes. he sees ur sleepy, red eyes and that tired and slow voice, and immediately he's in love. back in the van he makes an excuse of he forgot to pick something up so he can talk to u longer.

“Huh?”

This is the second time he’s asked you to repeat yourself. Frank knows you said something important—he can tell by the way your mouth keeps forming the words—but he has no idea what it was, because he can’t stop staring. You look totally fried. Not in a sloppy way. In a soft, high out of your mind, brain half off way. He can smell you from across the counter. Weed and vanilla perfume, warm and sweet and a little dizzying.

You blink slowly, thick lashes dragging down over sleepy, bloodshot eyes, like you’re trying to remember what you were saying, too.

“You want a bag?” A pause. “For your stuff?”

“Oh. Uh—yeah. Yeah, I’ll take a bag. And a pack of Newports, please.”

Frank watches as you start bagging the collection of bullshit spread across the counter: Cool Ranch Doritos for himself, Twizzlers for Gee, travel-size Advil for Mikey, and a Red Bull for Ray because it’s his turn to drive and Ray gets unbearable without caffeine. When you turn around to grab the cigarettes, Frank shamelessly stares at your ass. He tells himself it’s fine. He’ll never see you again. This is it. So he might as well take in every detail while he can.

“$13.78.”

Frank hands you a twenty. While you count out his change, he notices the small stuff. The tiny sparkly stars painted on your short, stubby nails. The way they match the little star-shaped earrings tucked into your ears. The oversized men’s jacket hanging off your shoulders over the 7/11 shirt. It's too big to be yours. Carhartt. Looks like a guy’s jacket. Maybe you have a boyfriend. Maybe it’s his. Maybe he’s built like a refrigerator and would beat Frank’s ass into the pavement if he knew Frank was standing here, dead eyed and drooling, checking out his girlfriend at three in the morning.

You slide the bag and the change across the counter.

“You like Black Flag?” you ask casually, eyes flicking down to the four black rectangles tattooed on his arm, like you’re just trying to make conversation. and this wasn't about to change the course of his life.

Frank’s brain short-circuits.

“Do you like Black Flag?”

“Yeah. They’re rad.” you say, bright and easy, a sweet, sleepy smile creeping onto your face.

Frank fucking loses it.

There are a million things he could say. They’re my favorite band. I’m in a band. What are you doing tomorrow night? Can I get your number? Can I smoke you out? Do you have a boyfriend who can beat me up, and if so, how fast can he get here?

Instead—

“Yeah,” Frank mumbles. “They’re pretty alright. Have a good night.”

If his nervousness wasn’t obvious in his butchered response, it’s obvious in the way he grabs his bag and change and practically sprints for the parking lot. He doesn’t look back. He can’t. The cold night air slaps him in the face as he spots the van parked crookedly in front of a gas pump. He yanks open the passenger door and climbs in.

Ray barely looks up. Gee is slumped against the window behind him, mouth open. Mikey’s hoodie is pulled over his face. The van smells like acrid post show air and fast food wrappers. Everyone’s dead.

Frank, on the other hand, is vibrating with frantic energy, like something devastating just happened and he hasn’t caught up to it yet.

“You good?” Ray asks, exhausted, not really caring.

“I think I just met my wife.”

A pause hangs in the air. Ray exhales through his nose and rubs his face, thumb digging into his eye socket.

“I think I just met my wife, and I fucked it up.” Frank repeats, mostly to himself.

“Cool,” Ray says. “Did you get my Red Bull or not?”

Frank freezes, the bag still clenched in his hand. The weight of it is suddenly very real. He's never going to see you again. The cold aluminum can shifts inside, unmistakable.

“They were out,” he says, pausing a second too long. “No—wait. I grabbed the wrong one.”

Even as the words leave his mouth, he knows how bad the lie sounds. He glances down at the bag. The Red Bull is right there, the corner of the can pressing against the plastic.

Ray looks at the bag. Then at Frank, expression unchanging.

“Dude.”

Frank panics.

“I’ll be two seconds,” he says, already backing out of the van. “I’ll fix it.”

Ray squints, exhausted and suspicious, but mostly just annoyed.

He shuts the door before Ray can respond and turns back toward the store, heart hammering, the lie flimsy and obvious, but good enough to get him back inside.

[g0ff1k]

i am a loaded gun

[1013corpses]

c.

[aroacesofspades]

love how he thinks the most normal part of this statement was him fucking the monitors

[disguisedbat]

[imissusofar]

gnawing on him like a chew toy

[lynzwayunfacts]

fuck that previous anon. I'm so tired of people weponizing misogyny and using Gerard to defend Lynz from her shitty behavior. I've personally seen her be racist. they only like her because she's Gerard's wife and are projecting

It's always the same argument, the word order might change, but the final card is always the Yu-Gi-Oh! card of "Block Misogyny!" :

"You don't like Lindsey just because she's a woman!"

"No, it's because she defended an abuser..."

"That's a lie! Just because she's with Gerard!"

"No, man, it's because she plagiarized lesser artists."

"But of course you hate her, you're just jealous of your marriage!"

"Listen to me, she profited from racism and said she didn't care about the slander, and besides, she pretended to be of an ethnicity she didn't belong to just to seem less white."

"I bet you want to get into Gerard's pants."

"Dude, I'm a lesbian!"

"When you learn to play bass and be as brilliant as her, then we'll talk!"

"Which isn't very difficult..."

You have to have a lot of patience...

[plsbuymepizza]

Frank’s hands/hand tattoos for cock-zero ♥

[z0mbieg1rlz]

introducting ...

📺 earlyemo!reader

scene queen. studded belts. works a shitty job at a movie theater. posters. stolen eyeliner. black hair dye stains. hot topic band tees. muddy converse. rubber bracelets. stacks of cds. pit fanatic ˎˊ˗

earlyemo!reader who spends her time scooping popcorn, flicking through cds, playing resident evil on her hand-me-down ps1, doing her own stick n pokes, and losing her voice at hardcore shows.

earlyemo!reader who keeps her flip phone clipped onto her belt, and has lost it at least 5 times (she has to attach a keychain with her apartment address now). it's a motorola V60 that she splurged on after her christmas bonus the year before. it's sleek silver and her most prized possession-besides her digicam.

earlyemo!reader who takes a couple classes at rutger's (though she still isn't quite sure what to do with her life), which is where she sees frank for the second time. he’s falling asleep in the campus library over an article, and she recognizes him from a basement gig a couple nights before. she doesn’t remember the name of the band, just that she didn't hate the music.

earlyemo!reader who’s eventually formally introduced to him through gerard, when she stops by to pick up a poster for a show he designed. frank’s cute-messy brown hair curling around his ears, ripped jeans hanging low on his hips (held up by a bubblegum pink belt), and a silver ring on the side of his lip. she notices the way his face heats up when he looks at her for too long, and decides to pocket this observation for later.

who is paired with ...

🎸 frank iero

jersey prince. skeleton gloves. lip rings. staticky mixtapes. guitarist. scorpion tattoo. accidental cigarette burns and shitty blunts. monster movies. pansy ˎˊ˗

frank iero who can be found writing riffs, bouncing from school to gigs in his grandpa’s old car, rolling sub par joints, writing terrible essays, and failing at every dnd campaign gee forces him to play.

frank iero who refuses to work a normal job- he says he’s not square enough for it. he’s worked a few odd ones here and there, a stint at a gas station and a supermarket, but he always goes back to music in the end.

frank iero who has no idea gerard's meeting anyone the day she comes over, and is startled when she offers him a smile as she walks through the way's front door. the second the door shuts behind her, frank's interrogating gee-trying to figure out where she goes to school, who she knows, what bands she likes. gerard laughs and shrugs and tells him to ask her himself.

frank iero who thinks she's probably one of the coolest people he's ever met. she offers him a blunt outside a venue and he's pretty sure he can feel himself implode, trying not to think about the implications of her lips indirectly touching his.

mixtape | the smau

comment 2 be tagged! check out my dc smaus @ellebowchelle!! luv u :P