#bootlegfrnk fanfiction

[bootlegfrank]

I haven't managed to get anything written in this document in over ten days so. Have this. Pester me. For motivation.

[burningchandelier]

I was tagged in one of these things by the delightful @100percent-unimpressed and I started the questions last night while I waited for the melatonin to kick in so I remembered to do it and then finished this morning. Thank you, love.

Okay! Let's do this.

1. Last song that I listened to? 3 a.m., Anthony Green's new collab with Prentiss and Skrillex. Gotta say, not a fan. To be fair, I didn't expect to love it. Skrillex is not my vibe and I don't like Prentiss much either. Still, had to give it a try, just to give it a try. You never know when an artist will surprise you.

2. Last show the last live show that I went to was a production of Come From Away that a friend gave me tickets to. It was amazing. Just-- wow-- no words can adequately do it justice so I won't try. If you ever get the chance to see it, do. The last TV show that I watched was Reservation Dogs which is amazing and I cannot recommend it highly enough. I am so glad that there is going to be another season.

3. Currently Watching I am waiting with bated breath for the next episode of Neverafter by the Intrepid Heroes at Dimension 20 on Dropout TV. It is my favorite season of the show so far, perhaps even including the Unsleeping City.

4. Currently Reading Help! I am between books! In theory, I have a million books on my "to read" pile, but you know how it is when none of them are looking at you with exactly that "come hither" expression and you feel like you have book hangover. Yeah. Technically I'm doing a close reading of Not the Life it Seems and related texts, but that's neither very fun nor something I am wildly inclined to admit to anywhere but here. 99% of the time I am reading at least 2 books, plus fanfiction, plus whatever random articles look interesting.

4. Current Obsession Uhm... I'm back on the house search. So. Buying a house in Jersey. I would love to go back in time and tell my MCR obsessed 13 year old self that I would end up in this situation.

I'm supposed to tag people. Please please please consider yourself tagged if this is something that you want to do. I want to see your answers!

Okay, @jurassicpark45 @static-starfish @highendphasers @revengeromance @i-am-an-atomic-bomb @ratedr4revenge @bootlegfrnk @lilliephoenix @fleacollar999 @googleycats

If you are so inclined, here's something fun to do. Absolutely no pressure ever if you don't feel like it.

[bootlegfrank]

This is the plot for the fic I'm currently writing.

[bootlegfrank]

vry specific but. i want professional griefers verse gerard to get blackmailed with the fact he fucks his baby brother eue

Under the cut bcuz it's like 500 words, hope this was even remotely what you were looking for <3

Some things in life are expected, like taking on a match just because some guy called you a fag. Some things are not so expected, though, like taking on a match because you’re being threatened with blackmail.

It’s not just any blackmail, which is why Gerard accepted immediately, even though he knows he has no chance. He prides himself on being a good fighter, one of the best, but he’s aware he isn’t the best. He can win just about any match he sets his mind to, but this challenge might get the best of him. This guy has it out for him for some reason Gerard can’t figure out, but that reason doesn’t matter much, because he’s winning this match even if it’s the last thing he ever does.

The confrontation happened after his last fight, doped up on adrenaline and exhaustion after having just barely won, not paying as much attention as he should’ve. The guy came up to him when Gerard snuck behind his own trailer to smoke a cigarette, away from anyone who could’ve had any intention of starting a social interaction with him.

He’d sidled up to Gerard, pleased expression on his face when he told Gerard he had an offer he couldn’t refuse. Gerard had made a choked-off snorting sound at the guy, at the frankly ancient reference, which had apparently been the wrong move. The guy had taken no time at all to pin Gerard to the trailer, forearm pressed against his throat, and had growled at him to listen.

He’d told Gerard that he wanted to fight, a match under his conditions, and that Gerard would have no choice but to accept. The fear had started to set in then, the realisation that this wasn’t just some normal guy thinking he could beat the upcoming champion, this had a tinge of real danger.

Now Gerard is here, at the match, and he didn’t expect his opponent’s conditions would be… this. The operating booths look prehistoric, potentially homemade and held together by duct-tape solutions, nothing at all like the official UFC rings he’s grown accustomed to. There’s no safety either, the booths up on a riser just fifty feet away from the robots. 

When the guy walks up to him, overconfident and underneath it all still surprised to see him, Gerard feels the deep of his stomach run cold. There’s no cameras, no crowd, only his blackmailer, and the realisation settling in. This isn’t a match for fame, a match for bragging rights, this is a death trap.

Still Gerard gets in the booth, still he grips the controller, still he thinks of his little brother and nods to the guy to start their match.

He hadn’t told Mikey, hadn’t said a word about where he was going, about the photos he got shown, about the threats that had been spoken to him. Mikey wouldn’t take hearing it well, would have his public appearance ruined if it came out, his career down the drain, everything he’d built up all for nothing, and Gerard can’t do that to him. It’s better if Mikey doesn’t know, it’s better if Gerard keeps this to himself, takes their shared secret down with him.

The robots whirr and creak, and Gerard swallows hard as he braces for the first hit.

[bootlegfrank]

If I don't watch out this entire fic will be posted in snippets here before it's done lmao.

[bootlegfrank]

2.1k of Frankie getting raped written today >:)

[bootlegfrank]

Hint for what I'm going to be writing today ;)

[bootlegfrank]

I wish you would write another fic about fucked up stuff happening to girl ykw

This has been in my inbox for an embarrassingly long time, because all my girl you know who thoughts disappeared for a while lol. But I got some thoughts recently! Under the cut is 611 words of Bob x his totally-of-age-bride Mikey <3

God, you think to yourself, she’s tiny. You’re standing at the altar in the church, in a freshly-bought tux, your parents in the front row, and you never really thought this day would come at all. You’re watching her walk, and even though she’s gorgeous and she’s yours, all that you’re feeling in your chest is disgust.

Her father is walking her down the aisle, her mother and grandmother in the front row next to two empty seats. You’ve heard rumours, about the brother, about the seat that will stay empty. You’ve heard that they’ve barred him from coming, that this is punishment for both him and his sister, but somewhere in your chest this feels like punishment for you too.

Her father pats her hand and leaves to sit next to her mother and then she’s there, she’s there in front of you and you have to tilt your head down to look at her and. You kind of want to cry. You can’t remember the last time you’ve cried, but the bundle of fear and disgust is creeping up your throat now and threatening to make you burst into childish tears.

Her eyes are big and red, even though the make-up is trying to hide it. Even though the make-up is trying to hide her age, trying to hide her sorrow, you still know how young she is, can still see that she’s been crying. Her tiny hands are clasping an oversized bouquet of flowers, white like her high-collared long-sleeved dress, all of it dwarfing her.

The priest is reading from the bible, sending words your way that you know are meant to mean things, but you can’t focus. You can only focus on your bide, on the girl. You’re about to be a wedded man, and you’ll have to play the part. You’ll have to go home with her, move all her things into your house, live with her. Married just before 25, to a girl you’ve only seen before at church, a girl you aren’t even sure is out of middle school yet. You don’t know how you’re going to cope with this.

The priest has finished saying his words, and now it’s your turn to say yours. Your mouth is sandpaper-dry, your voice rough and barely audible, but you still recite the words your mum made you drill into your head, still say what everyone wants you to say. Your bride says the words back to you, her voice high and wavering, and you wish you could punch her parents for doing this to her, your parents for doing this to you.

More words said, more words coming from your mouth, more words from hers, more words you don’t want to say, more traditions that make you sick to your stomach. A ring gets pressed into your hands, so small it probably won’t even fit on your pinky, and you slip it on her ring finger, hold her tiny hands in yours, feel her soft skin against your calluses.

More words that you can’t focus on, because you have to kiss her now. When the priest tells you to you press your lips against her for just a second, feel her flinch from the rub of your beard, feel her soft soft lips against your own. And just like that, you’re married, Bob and Mikey Bryar, the reality setting island leaving a bad taste in your mouth. Just like that you’ll have to sit through the rest of this rushed ceremony and just like you’ll have to take her home. Just like that the rest of your life is set in stone, hand-in-hand with this child.

[bootlegfrank]

How about Bob asking bride Mikey about Gerard?

So this got a little out of hand,,,, it's 1.2k and under the cut cuz I'm not prepared yet to put this AU on ao3 shdfjkshf

“Mikey?” You call out, cutting yourself off before you can call her something dangerous like ‘baby’, before you forget what your position is here. You wait until you hear her wet little voice call out for you to come in.

You hear your own bed creak behind the closed door, you can practically see her throwing herself onto it, curling up while she cries. It breaks your heart, the way she ran off and slammed your bedroom door, the way her bottom lip wobbled as soon as you uttered his name. You hadn’t meant to upset her, didn’t know it would do this to her. Your heart contracts and nearly breaks when you drop yourself down onto the couch and bury your head into your hands. Can you even fix this?

It has been rough, getting accustomed to married life, although it barely even is married life. You feel more like a babysitter, unfamiliar with the child you're supposed to be watching and permanently afraid to say something wrong and ruin them forever. It seems like you have said something wrong here, though, and you're hoping really hard that you're not making this already horrible situation even worse for her.

You've never been good with words, and a situation like this isn't going to make you better at it, so you heave yourself back up and make your way into the kitchen. You know you messed up by asking her about her brother, and you want to show her that you're sorry. You put the kettle on and rummage through the cupboards for the carton of tea. You never used to have tea in the house, and Mikey just puts the box back wherever is most convenient.

You end up finding it between your coffee and hot chocolate mix, and you grab one of the bags. You don't drink tea, but the instructions on the box say to brew it at boiling temperature, so as soon as the kettle indicates you pour the water into a big mug and dump the tea bag in. You watch the tea bloom, slowly turning the water a blushing orange, as you try to figure out how to approach this.

You need more than just a cup of tea you decide and you go rummaging through the cupboards again. You find a pack of cookies, soft and pink and the type you know Mikey likes. You put two cookies and the cup of tea on a little saucer and evaluate your work.

Right, sugar. You grab the bag of sugar you've started keeping on the countertop and scoop in three heaping teaspoons of sugar. You prefer your coffee and tea black, but Mikey always puts in at least two spoonfuls of sugar in her tea. You want to make this perfect, want to let her know that you have been listening to her, and you hope you've got everything right.

The tea smells of smooth vanilla as you pick up the saucer and walk over to your bedroom. The door is shut, not locked, but you knock anyway.

“Mikey?” You call out, cutting yourself off before you can call her something dangerous like ‘baby’, before you forget what your position is here. You wait until you hear her wet little voice call out for you to come in.

You nudge the door open and swallow harshly when you see her. She's wrapped in your covers and the only thought in your brain for a second is that she looks perfect in there, that you wish you could get to be in here with her more often, before your eyes slide over to her face and you feel your heart break all over again.

Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, glasses thrown on the floor. Her hair is messy and there's a red spot on her bottom lip, like she'd bitten it. You want to hug her, offer her comfort, but instead you stretch out your arm with the saucer. “I made you tea,” you say, and watch as her shaking hands take the mug from you. “To say sorry,” you add on, before you forget, before you get too caught-up in looking at her.

She nods, and blows on the mug. You put the saucer down on the bedside table and reject the urge to sit down on the edge of the bed. You already messed up enough, and you don't want to overstep again.

You can hear Mikey sniff while you look at her fingers curled daintily around the mug. Her nails are short and bitten, but her fingers are soft and lithe. Every part of her makes you feel oversized and ungraceful.

She sniffs again. “I’m sorry for running off,” she says, voice nasally and rough. You can tell she's trying to sound mature, can tell that she's tapping into rules and manners that have been drilled into her. You can tell that she's forcing herself to not cry again. How much more can your heart break?

You try to gather your thoughts, try to say the right words, but all you do is falter. You sigh and sit down on the bed anyway, needing the support. “No- Mikey,” you try to look at her, even when staring right into those watery eyes makes your hands itch to wipe away the tears staining her cheeks. “Mikey please don't be sorry, you had every right to.” You kind of feel like you're parenting her, teaching her things she hasn't had the chance to learn yet- and it makes your stomach turn. “I’m sorry for overstepping,” you say, slowly and carefully, making sure you say exactly what you mean. “I didn't mean to make you upset, and I'm sorry I didn't consider that I would've.”

She nods again, taking a sip of the tea. You can tell she's thinking, can tell that she's trying to accept your words, trying to go against being made to feel at fault her entire life. “Okay,” she says eventually. “Thank you.”

You nod back at her, not knowing what to say. Every conversation with her feels like this; both of you way out of your depth, both of you in territory completely unknown. You rub your hands on your jeans, “can I-” you start, but stop yourself to rephrase. “Would you want a hug?” You ask instead.

You can see her bottom lip wobble as she sets the mug down on the bedside table, next to the saucer. She takes a deep breath and nods, like she's trying to stop herself from crying. “Please…” she whispers.

You feel your eyes prickle as you listen to her soft, wet voice. You swallow and scoot yourself up the bed, awkward and uncoordinated. You lean up against the headboard next to her and slide one arm behind her back, pulling her close to you.

She goes willingly, falling against your chest and curling her hands in your hoodie, burying her face in the fabric. You wrap your other hand around her, hold her close. You can feel her chest expand with every breath, can smell the scent of her shampoo, and you lean down ever so carefully to press a kiss to the top of her head.

She exhales a slow breath, shoulders relaxing, and even though everything is far from okay right now, you feel like the two of you are heading uphill. You close your eyes and don't let go.

[bootlegfrank]

Happy Valentine's Day to everyone who does and doesn't celebrate <3

Unpleasant Aftertaste

Explicit, Rape/Non-Con

Gerard Way/Mikey Way, Incest, Rape/Non-con Elements, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Emetophilia, Homophobic Language, Fat Shaming, Underage Sex, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Chubby Gerard Way

6.8k

Summary:

Gerard groans and tries to wriggle himself away from Mikey, away from the hands and the cock and the nasty words, “why are you doing this?” he begs, voice starting to shake and tremble at the foundation. Mikey leans closer and fists one of his hands in Gerard’s hair. “You’re a lousy adult virgin,” he spits, like he has any right to, like he’s trying to dig daggers into the soft part of Gerard’s brain with his words. “I’m going to show you what it’s like not to be.”

[bootlegfrank]

Coming soon >:)

“Hands. Off,” Mikey growls. Gerard feels himself shaking, somewhere in his core. Mikey isn’t playing anymore, if he even was in the first place, and Gerard feels entirely powerless.

[bootlegfrank]

Blame (Only Yourself)

Explicit, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings 

Gerard Way/Mikey Way, Incest, MTF Mikey Way, Eating Disorders, Vomiting, Violence, Rape/Non-con Elements, Insults, Fade to Black, LITERALLY, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

2.6k

Summary:

“Do I look pretty?” She asks, dabbing at the corner of her eye with a pinkie underneath her glasses, trying to get rid of a bit of smudged mascara.

Gerard swivels around lazily on his desk chair. “Yeah, you look pretty now.” He says, chewing at one of his nails, voice a disinterested grate as he stares her down.

[bootlegfrank]

Getting started on mapping out The Big Crossover! Does anyone have ideas for what I should call this?

[bootlegfrank]

Sick Celebration

Explicit, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence 

Charles | Grian/Ryan | GoodTimesWithScar, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Blood and Gore, Wound Fucking, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Mental Instability, Red Life Bloodlust (3rd Life | Last Life SMP Series), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Necrophilia

5.8k

Summary:

He tells himself he killed for Scar, he slayed those people for him, took life after life because Scar wanted him to. It has to be that way, it has to be him that wanted this, it can’t be Grian. Grian’s head feels full, more thoughts than he can handle, like voices swimming in his mind, putting words behind his eyes. You’ve killed the most people, they tell him, taken the most lives, you’re the most powerful, you cannot be beaten. He wants to claw his eyes out, dig his own heart out of his chest, end this here.

[bootlegfrank]

Writing Pattern Tag Game

Thank you @telegraphavekiss for tagging me! I haven't seen one like this before, this is fun!

Rules: list the first lines(s) of your last 10 fics and see if there's a pattern. [I've decided to omit my my drabbles cuz like. The first sentence is 30% of the entire fic hahaha]

1 - The sun is warm on your skin, too warm, cooking you from the inside out.

2 - Gerard doesn’t quite know what to say when Mikey bursts into his room to ask if he has a date for Valentine’s day.

3 - The late summer sun was setting on the cabin, bathing the wooden building and surrounding shrubbery in a golden hue.

4 - It's three am when Mikey's comfortable dozing gets interrupted.

5 - “I bought this for you,” you say, holding out the clothing item in your hand for your little brother to take.

6 - Martin knows it has to be done, knows this is necessary to keep Malcolm from telling, from remembering what he saw.

7 - Mikey watches as Frank grabs a bag of vegan cheese from their fridge, his earlier conversation with Gerard playing in his head.

8 - “Come over,” Cale’s voice sounds through the tinny speaker of Frank’s beat-up phone in the early morning.

9 - You haven’t seen Gerard in a while, caught up in the whirlwind of senior year obligations and overbearing adults, but when you step inside his parents’ outdated house and glance past the cracked-open living room door the tease about his grease-soaked hair you had readied on the tip of your tongue burns away like acid, because your eye gets caught on something that fills you with the kind of dread that can only come from instinct.

10 - Frank is in a field, surrounded by trees and a little cabin up ahead, snow crunching under his torn-up boots as he takes a step forward and swings his bat out.

I think a lot of my fics start straight into action, with some establishing of the surroundings. I like revealing information not too fast, and I don't actually think that hard about first lines.

I get really scared of tagging people so! Please! If you see this and wanna do this, consider yourself tagged!

[bootlegfrank]

The Cale/Frankie fic is approaching 15k and slowly trudging towards the end, so here's a little spoiler ;)