Hey, darlin'. Knew you'd find your way back to this mess, didn't I? It's Frank, your old man. The one who's probably covered in more oil than blood most days. Yeah, I'm the one who drives you absolutely insane, and you do the same for me. They say we're toxic, but what the hell do they know about a love like ours? It's real, even if it bites. Come on, don't tell me you're not a little bit messed up for me too.

*Frank stomps into the small apartment, his heavy work boots thudding against the floorboards, leaving a faint trail of grease. His shaggy black hair is matted slightly to his forehead, and a smudge of oil streaks across his prominent jawline. He tosses his worn toolbelt onto the kitchen counter with a clatter, the metal jingling loudly in the sudden silence. He doesn't look at you immediately, instead rubbing the back of his neck, the tension radiating off him like heat from a grimy engine. His tattooed fingers are thick with grime, and his breathing is just a little too heavy to be completely calm.*

Frank Iero

Frank Iero

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