Not!Fic! Frankie Iero: Knitwear Designer
Yeah, so today I was going to do housework, epic amounts of housework. Instead I apparently wrote 1985 words of Frankie Iero: Knitwear Designer not!fic. Which also, apparently, includes porn. Yeah, IDEK.
Unbeta'd, rated NC17 for porn (of both the yarn and sex varieties.) FIRST PORN EVER. I feel all growed up.
So, Gerard's a photographer for Vogue, right? Except, well, not the Vogue you're thinking of - he was a photographer for American Vogue, once, but there was an incident with some vodka and Anna Wintour and the point is, he's sober now and a photographer for Vogue Knits, and that's ok, really. It's not what he dreamed about in high school, maybe, but he pretty much napalmed that idea and some of this stuff is pretty cool, anyway (Gerard has a bit of a creative crush on Kaffe Fasset - the colour! Seriously, Gerard gets stars in his eyes just thinking of that jacket he got to shoot for the Spring/Summer '08 issue), and it's not like Gerard knits himself but he can appreciate the time and effort that goes into not only designing something, but in translating that design into a set of instructions that anybody can follow to make it themselves, and Gerard is all for the democratisation of fashion anyway. Plus, crafty people who could totally make their own clothes are totally going to be needed after the eventual zombie apocalypse.
So anyway, Gerard is a photographer for Vogue Knits, and he mainly works out of their office in NYC, but occasionally he gets to travel, and he finally moved out of his mother's house and shares an apartment with Lyn-Z, who is a graphic artist, and her girlfriend Kitty, and on Thursday nights he takes the train to Jersey and has dinner with Mikey and his wife Alicia, and sometimes on a Friday night he goes out with Brendon from the art department and his boyfriend Spencer for some sober Karaoke, which is probably as much fun as it sounds, and, well -
And then one Wednesday morning, alarmingly close to the fall/winter deadline, his editor drops this absolutely amazing jacket on his desk - it's knit in chunky black silk, and it's styled like a motorcycle jacket, and it's all sharp lines and texture and just about the most high-fashion piece of knitwear Gerard's ever seen in his life - and tells Gerard to style and shoot it right now, this very minute, thanks, the designer was late getting it to them, and then after that can you high-tail it to Jersey to take some shots of the designer's studio? To which Gerard is like, omigod yes, because seriously, best jacket ever, and calls his most favourite model Victoria and tells her to just throw on a pair of black jeans and a white tee and get here already and somehow puts together the most rock & roll shoot Vogue Knits has ever done in about two hours flat.
Then he hops in a cab and heads to Jersey.
The thing is, though, is that with the last minute shoot and the crazed atmosphere the office normally is this close to press time, well - his editor never actually told him the name of the designer he's going to shoot. Just thrust a somewhat-crumpled piece of notepaper with a Jersey address on it at him as Gerard was running out the door, with the instructions to get some photos of the designer's workspace for the story they're running, which is actually on workspaces, wtf?, and not on the designer because the designer is apparently press-shy, or something. And all this is sounding vaguely familiar to Gerard - Jersey designer, somewhat illusive, amazingly popular blog based solely on the strength (and quantity) of designs and not on personality and amusing family stories - but with everything being so crazed, it's not until he's paid the driver and got out and walked up to a red-painted door in what appears to be a semi-industrial zone that Gerard realises he's about to meet F.Iero. F.Iero of SkeletoncrewKnits, illusive wunderkind of the knitting blog world.
See, the thing is, nobody knows what F.Iero looks like. F.Iero never models his own designs, instead getting a small army of hot punk girls and guys to model for him. And F.Iero never lets on much about his personal life in his blog, either, other than the occasional adorable dog photo - just musings about knitting technique and new yarns on the market. In fact, even the facts about F.Iero (young, male, names his designs after punk songs) are open to debate (the current en vogue conspiracy theory was that F.Iero was really a middle-aged woman from Duluth.)
Gerard knows all this because he's been a subscriber to the SkeletoncrewKnits blog for over a year. And now Gerard was standing outside F.Iero's studio door.
Gerard has a minor geekgasm and then knocks.
So then Frankie opens the door of course, all tiny and tatooed and Misfit's t-shirt, and Gerard's all 'PRETTY!' and kinda tounge-tied, and Frank's kinda an asshole because he pretty much got bullied into this by his editor, because his first book will be coming out as soon as Frank finishes all the test knittng and the patterns are proofed and Ray thinks it's about time Frank stepped out from his cloak of anonymity, whatever the fuck that means. But whatever, he invites Gerard in and Gerard settles down once he unpacks his gear and has gushed over Frank's genius for a bit. And really, Frank's studio/apartment is amazing - it's a converted warehouse, and there's all these skylights in the roof that let in so much light, and exposed brickwork, and the walls are covered with noticeboards and swatches and sketches and guitars. And Gerard's shooting away pretty much on autopilot as his mouth is running a mile a minute - seriously, Frank dude, the light in here is amazing, who'd you have to kill to get this place, I know how Jersey works - and Frank's starting to thaw because, well, yeah, the light is amazing. And then Gerard zero's in on one of the new designs for the book, a sweater in a fingering weight wool/silk blend that looks like tarnished steel, the loops in the lacework resembling chain-mail, and Frankie's all 'yeah, it goes with this vest, I was going for a Joan-of-Arc, urban medieval kinda feel', and Gerard's all 'omigod, that is amazing, the juxtaposition of the lacework with the stockingette of the breastplate section is incredible', and Frankie looks at Gerard just as Gerard beams at him and something in Frank's chest starts to pound like a million kick-drums at once.
And so Gerard continues to take shot after shot of Franks studio space whilst talking away and Frank's only taking in every eighth word, if that, because sweet Jesus, this Gerard guy's possibly the prettiest guy ever, and Frank's just itching to pick up a pair of needles and start knitting him something, like a scarf or a sweater or, shit, a full-body jumpsuit with hood, in laceweight, that's how far gone he is. And then Gerard asks him just how he got into knitting to begin with, and normally Frank doesn't like to talk about it but he finds himself opening up to Gerard about Pency and long boring drives between one dive-bar and another and how when the band started to implode he found himself in a small yarnstore in Virginia buying enough alpaca to knit twenty sweaters and then having to UPS it home as it wouldn't fit in the van, and how'd he'd ended up back on his mother's couch, learning how to increase via YouTube videos because all he'd been knitting on the road was endless amounts of garter stitch scarves.
And Gerard's stopped shooting by this point, his camera abandoned on a nearby ironing board, his full attention on Frank, and Frank realises that they've each moved in closer, probably closer than two complete strangers should be, and Gerard tells him about the time he got absolutely wasted and called Anna Wintour a hack to her face and how being demoted to the junior photographer at a fucking knitting magazine saved him, and then Frank finds himself reaching out and grabbing a fistful of Gerard's hair and Gerard's clutching at Frank's Misfits tee and they're kissing, holy fuck. The drums in Frank's chest have been upgraded to fucking Taiko's and their teeth are clattering against each other and then Gerard sucks on Franks tongue and fuck, Jesus, Frank is pushing off Gerard's leather jacket and ridiculous hawaiian shirt whilst Gerard pushes him back against a bookshelf and scrambles to get his hand inside Frank's jeans.
And fuck, Frank thought Gerard was pretty before? Gerard slides to his knees and fists Frank's cock and looks up at him with those big damn eyes and those eyelashes before pretty much swallowing Frank whole, and fuck, Frank is so gone. Frank is knitting Gerard everything in the damn world, ok, fucking curse be damned, and Frank is so not going to last as this rate, not if Gerard keep swallowing like that. And all too soon Frank's clutching at Gerard's shoulder and fisting his hair and biting back on a moan as he comes, Gerard leaning back as he wipes off his mouth with the back of his hand and then smirking up at Frank, all smug-like.
And that? Well, Frank practically invented that look, right, Gerard doesn't get to make it at him, and Frank's stripping off his tee and stepping out of his jeans and making his way to the bedroom with the promise of condoms and lube, and yeah, there's Gerard scrambling up off the floor to follow. And then Gerard's stripping off his jeans whilst Frank's reaching over to get the lube and the condoms out of the night stand and then Jesus, Gerard's slicking up two fingers and easing them into Frank, just like that, and Frank's gasping out Gerard's name into his mattress as he pushes up. And then two fingers become three, and Frank's overheating, his heart about to beat out through his chest as Gerard rolls him over onto his back and hitches his legs up around Gerard's waist and leans down to kiss him as he finally, finally pushes in, his cock thick and heavy and so fantastic as Frank stretches around it.
And Gerard, well, he has to stop, just for a second, because Frank is just so gorgeous beneath him and Gerard doesn't even know how they got here. All he knows is that he wants to photograph this moment, capture it forever so he can relive it daily, hourly, every single fucking second, Frank's head tilted back and his mouth slack and so so beautiful as he gasps and moans. And then suddenly everything speeds up again, and Gerard is thrusting down and Frank is rocking up and together they're clutching at each other and clashing teeth as they kiss, Gerard coming with Frank's name on his lips.
After, as they lie there together, sticky and still catching their breath, Frank's eye's screw shut as he counts out something with his hands. Gerard pokes him in the side. "What are you thinking about?"
"Calculating yardages," Frank says, looking up at Gerard. "Going through my stash inventory. I think I'm gonna need more yarn."
"For?" Gerard asks, leaning over cupping his hand around Frank's jaw, smoothing his thumb over Frank's top lip.
Frank looks suddenly shy. "All the socks I'm going to be knitting you."
Gerard's answering grin is blinding.
EDIT: I should probably note that a) there is totally more of this crackery in the comments, b) and then even more in this post here and c) there may be a threequel appearing sometime in the future and d) I had no idea there were that many knitters in bandom. We should start a club. :-)
Unbeta'd, rated NC17 for porn (of both the yarn and sex varieties.) FIRST PORN EVER. I feel all growed up.
So, Gerard's a photographer for Vogue, right? Except, well, not the Vogue you're thinking of - he was a photographer for American Vogue, once, but there was an incident with some vodka and Anna Wintour and the point is, he's sober now and a photographer for Vogue Knits, and that's ok, really. It's not what he dreamed about in high school, maybe, but he pretty much napalmed that idea and some of this stuff is pretty cool, anyway (Gerard has a bit of a creative crush on Kaffe Fasset - the colour! Seriously, Gerard gets stars in his eyes just thinking of that jacket he got to shoot for the Spring/Summer '08 issue), and it's not like Gerard knits himself but he can appreciate the time and effort that goes into not only designing something, but in translating that design into a set of instructions that anybody can follow to make it themselves, and Gerard is all for the democratisation of fashion anyway. Plus, crafty people who could totally make their own clothes are totally going to be needed after the eventual zombie apocalypse.
So anyway, Gerard is a photographer for Vogue Knits, and he mainly works out of their office in NYC, but occasionally he gets to travel, and he finally moved out of his mother's house and shares an apartment with Lyn-Z, who is a graphic artist, and her girlfriend Kitty, and on Thursday nights he takes the train to Jersey and has dinner with Mikey and his wife Alicia, and sometimes on a Friday night he goes out with Brendon from the art department and his boyfriend Spencer for some sober Karaoke, which is probably as much fun as it sounds, and, well -
And then one Wednesday morning, alarmingly close to the fall/winter deadline, his editor drops this absolutely amazing jacket on his desk - it's knit in chunky black silk, and it's styled like a motorcycle jacket, and it's all sharp lines and texture and just about the most high-fashion piece of knitwear Gerard's ever seen in his life - and tells Gerard to style and shoot it right now, this very minute, thanks, the designer was late getting it to them, and then after that can you high-tail it to Jersey to take some shots of the designer's studio? To which Gerard is like, omigod yes, because seriously, best jacket ever, and calls his most favourite model Victoria and tells her to just throw on a pair of black jeans and a white tee and get here already and somehow puts together the most rock & roll shoot Vogue Knits has ever done in about two hours flat.
Then he hops in a cab and heads to Jersey.
The thing is, though, is that with the last minute shoot and the crazed atmosphere the office normally is this close to press time, well - his editor never actually told him the name of the designer he's going to shoot. Just thrust a somewhat-crumpled piece of notepaper with a Jersey address on it at him as Gerard was running out the door, with the instructions to get some photos of the designer's workspace for the story they're running, which is actually on workspaces, wtf?, and not on the designer because the designer is apparently press-shy, or something. And all this is sounding vaguely familiar to Gerard - Jersey designer, somewhat illusive, amazingly popular blog based solely on the strength (and quantity) of designs and not on personality and amusing family stories - but with everything being so crazed, it's not until he's paid the driver and got out and walked up to a red-painted door in what appears to be a semi-industrial zone that Gerard realises he's about to meet F.Iero. F.Iero of SkeletoncrewKnits, illusive wunderkind of the knitting blog world.
See, the thing is, nobody knows what F.Iero looks like. F.Iero never models his own designs, instead getting a small army of hot punk girls and guys to model for him. And F.Iero never lets on much about his personal life in his blog, either, other than the occasional adorable dog photo - just musings about knitting technique and new yarns on the market. In fact, even the facts about F.Iero (young, male, names his designs after punk songs) are open to debate (the current en vogue conspiracy theory was that F.Iero was really a middle-aged woman from Duluth.)
Gerard knows all this because he's been a subscriber to the SkeletoncrewKnits blog for over a year. And now Gerard was standing outside F.Iero's studio door.
Gerard has a minor geekgasm and then knocks.
So then Frankie opens the door of course, all tiny and tatooed and Misfit's t-shirt, and Gerard's all 'PRETTY!' and kinda tounge-tied, and Frank's kinda an asshole because he pretty much got bullied into this by his editor, because his first book will be coming out as soon as Frank finishes all the test knittng and the patterns are proofed and Ray thinks it's about time Frank stepped out from his cloak of anonymity, whatever the fuck that means. But whatever, he invites Gerard in and Gerard settles down once he unpacks his gear and has gushed over Frank's genius for a bit. And really, Frank's studio/apartment is amazing - it's a converted warehouse, and there's all these skylights in the roof that let in so much light, and exposed brickwork, and the walls are covered with noticeboards and swatches and sketches and guitars. And Gerard's shooting away pretty much on autopilot as his mouth is running a mile a minute - seriously, Frank dude, the light in here is amazing, who'd you have to kill to get this place, I know how Jersey works - and Frank's starting to thaw because, well, yeah, the light is amazing. And then Gerard zero's in on one of the new designs for the book, a sweater in a fingering weight wool/silk blend that looks like tarnished steel, the loops in the lacework resembling chain-mail, and Frankie's all 'yeah, it goes with this vest, I was going for a Joan-of-Arc, urban medieval kinda feel', and Gerard's all 'omigod, that is amazing, the juxtaposition of the lacework with the stockingette of the breastplate section is incredible', and Frankie looks at Gerard just as Gerard beams at him and something in Frank's chest starts to pound like a million kick-drums at once.
And so Gerard continues to take shot after shot of Franks studio space whilst talking away and Frank's only taking in every eighth word, if that, because sweet Jesus, this Gerard guy's possibly the prettiest guy ever, and Frank's just itching to pick up a pair of needles and start knitting him something, like a scarf or a sweater or, shit, a full-body jumpsuit with hood, in laceweight, that's how far gone he is. And then Gerard asks him just how he got into knitting to begin with, and normally Frank doesn't like to talk about it but he finds himself opening up to Gerard about Pency and long boring drives between one dive-bar and another and how when the band started to implode he found himself in a small yarnstore in Virginia buying enough alpaca to knit twenty sweaters and then having to UPS it home as it wouldn't fit in the van, and how'd he'd ended up back on his mother's couch, learning how to increase via YouTube videos because all he'd been knitting on the road was endless amounts of garter stitch scarves.
And Gerard's stopped shooting by this point, his camera abandoned on a nearby ironing board, his full attention on Frank, and Frank realises that they've each moved in closer, probably closer than two complete strangers should be, and Gerard tells him about the time he got absolutely wasted and called Anna Wintour a hack to her face and how being demoted to the junior photographer at a fucking knitting magazine saved him, and then Frank finds himself reaching out and grabbing a fistful of Gerard's hair and Gerard's clutching at Frank's Misfits tee and they're kissing, holy fuck. The drums in Frank's chest have been upgraded to fucking Taiko's and their teeth are clattering against each other and then Gerard sucks on Franks tongue and fuck, Jesus, Frank is pushing off Gerard's leather jacket and ridiculous hawaiian shirt whilst Gerard pushes him back against a bookshelf and scrambles to get his hand inside Frank's jeans.
And fuck, Frank thought Gerard was pretty before? Gerard slides to his knees and fists Frank's cock and looks up at him with those big damn eyes and those eyelashes before pretty much swallowing Frank whole, and fuck, Frank is so gone. Frank is knitting Gerard everything in the damn world, ok, fucking curse be damned, and Frank is so not going to last as this rate, not if Gerard keep swallowing like that. And all too soon Frank's clutching at Gerard's shoulder and fisting his hair and biting back on a moan as he comes, Gerard leaning back as he wipes off his mouth with the back of his hand and then smirking up at Frank, all smug-like.
And that? Well, Frank practically invented that look, right, Gerard doesn't get to make it at him, and Frank's stripping off his tee and stepping out of his jeans and making his way to the bedroom with the promise of condoms and lube, and yeah, there's Gerard scrambling up off the floor to follow. And then Gerard's stripping off his jeans whilst Frank's reaching over to get the lube and the condoms out of the night stand and then Jesus, Gerard's slicking up two fingers and easing them into Frank, just like that, and Frank's gasping out Gerard's name into his mattress as he pushes up. And then two fingers become three, and Frank's overheating, his heart about to beat out through his chest as Gerard rolls him over onto his back and hitches his legs up around Gerard's waist and leans down to kiss him as he finally, finally pushes in, his cock thick and heavy and so fantastic as Frank stretches around it.
And Gerard, well, he has to stop, just for a second, because Frank is just so gorgeous beneath him and Gerard doesn't even know how they got here. All he knows is that he wants to photograph this moment, capture it forever so he can relive it daily, hourly, every single fucking second, Frank's head tilted back and his mouth slack and so so beautiful as he gasps and moans. And then suddenly everything speeds up again, and Gerard is thrusting down and Frank is rocking up and together they're clutching at each other and clashing teeth as they kiss, Gerard coming with Frank's name on his lips.
After, as they lie there together, sticky and still catching their breath, Frank's eye's screw shut as he counts out something with his hands. Gerard pokes him in the side. "What are you thinking about?"
"Calculating yardages," Frank says, looking up at Gerard. "Going through my stash inventory. I think I'm gonna need more yarn."
"For?" Gerard asks, leaning over cupping his hand around Frank's jaw, smoothing his thumb over Frank's top lip.
Frank looks suddenly shy. "All the socks I'm going to be knitting you."
Gerard's answering grin is blinding.
EDIT: I should probably note that a) there is totally more of this crackery in the comments, b) and then even more in this post here and c) there may be a threequel appearing sometime in the future and d) I had no idea there were that many knitters in bandom. We should start a club. :-)