afraidoflittleauldme

[afraidoflittleauldme]

i want to feel you from the inside is the best thing i have ever read. im eating the fuck out of your writings thank you so much

Ahh thank you!! I’ve had so many new readers find me through that TikTok edit (I am totally obsessed with it) and I’m so thankful.

Writing is my happy place, so I’m really excited to see what people request next :)

[afraidoflittleauldme]

haiii loved ur basement gee... can i request gerard being a pervert with a reader who isnt SUPER close to him and maaaaybe a biiit of an age gap???

maybe reader being a friend of mikeys or daughter to some friends of gees parents, i feel like it could be kinda thrilling for him to crush on someone who he probably shouldnt. any gerard era is fine cause its never too late for gerard to be a freak, basement gerard awkwardness and dirtyness would be amazing though :3

“Fun Tonight”

basement!Gerard x female!reader

Warning: nsfw, smut, underage drinking (idk is 19 considered underage drinking? I’m european), dubious consent, choking

Word count: 3.7k

Author’s note: I absolutely enjoyed working on this request. Sorry for the time it took to craft, but it’s here at last! I’m so tempted to write a part 2 now. Hope you’ll love it!

(Also yesterday was my birthday, so this was a birthday present from me to me lowkey.)

Masterlist

The house felt wrong without Donna and Donald in it. Too hollow, too quiet in all the wrong places, too loud in the rest of them, like something had been scooped out of its chest. It wasn’t just empty; it was off. You couldn’t remember a single time you’d stepped inside without Mikey and Gerard’s parents hovering somewhere nearby, Donna humming tunelessly under her breath, Donald clearing his throat behind a newspaper. They were the pulse of the place. Without them, the house was just drywall, wood panels and carpet.

You’d grown up crossing that door a thousand times, knee-scraped and sugar-rushed, running down the hallway toward the promise of cartoons and snacks. You’d sat cross-legged on the living room rug, sticky with melted ice cream, while your parents traded whispers and coffee in the background. The walls had absorbed you, the stairs creaked under your weight as naturally as under Mikey’s or Gerard’s. But now, walking into the same space felt like trespassing. Too much air hung in the rooms. Too much carpet under your shoes. Too much silence in the walls that the party only half-filled.

Mikey’s birthday had dragged what felt like half the freshman class of some college into the house. A small multitude of nineteen-year-olds pressed into the living room, spilling into hallways, slouched against walls or hunched on the staircase. The coffee table groaned was covered on greasy pizza boxes, crumpled napkins and red plastic cups sweating condensation onto the coasters Donna had once fussed about. Someone had found ashtrays from somewhere in the house and filled them to overflowing with cigarette butts. The smoke bled in through the back porch door, clinging to the ceiling and irritating your throat, mixing with the sour beer smell.

The music was some half-arsed playlist Mikey’s friend had thrown together, it blasted unevenly from a speaker in the corner. The volume was up too high, shaking the glass panes in the windows. The neighbours had already knocked once. You’d seen them at the door, lips tight, arms crossed, delivering their complaint with fake politeness. Mikey had nodded, murmured promises, then shut the door and turned the volume back up a notch louder, grinning sheepishly as if daring the neighbourhood to do something about it. He knew his parents were not going to do much about it.

You kept to the edges of the room. You always did. Pressing yourself into corners. There were people everywhere, laughter cracking open too loud, words tumbling together, the sour-sweet stink of sweat. Someone tripped over your shoes and muttered an apology without ever meeting your eyes. Another body leaned against you briefly while searching for a lighter, then vanished again into the crowd.

You weren’t close to Mikey or Gerard… not really. You’d known them your whole life, but familiarity was most definitely not intimacy. Your parents had been friends for years, which meant you’d been dragged along into playdates you never asked for. Summers of running down the same hallway, yelling into the same backyard, fighting over the same action figures. As you grew older, the bond didn’t stretch, it actually just frayed. You saw each other like background music: constant and recognisable noise, but you never something you chose for yourself.

Mikey was easy tonight, easier than you’d ever seen him. Nineteen looked good on him or maybe it was just the beer his older brother bought for him. His cheeks glowed pink, his glasses slid down his nose with every laugh, his limbs went loose and careless with the music. He flitted from group to group, a little too loud, stumbling over his words. People leaned toward him, grinning. For once, Mikey felt like he was magnetic.

Gerard was the opposite. Twenty-two years of age now. Fresh out of some fancy art school in New York. The same art school you’d tried and failed to get into the previous year. He’d made it in; you didn’t. You had ended up stuck in Newark, close enough to sting, close enough to see the life you wanted circling just beyond your reach.

Gerard should’ve felt older around this crowd, more solid, but instead he was still hiding in plain sight. His shoulders hunched as if bracing against invisible hits, his gestures small, nervous, shrinking his body down in crowded rooms.

And yet your eyes found him every single time. They always did, no matter how much you tried to keep them elsewhere. Across the room, the greasy black curtain of hair sticking to his damp forehead and shining against the lights, the cracked leather jacket he’d worn for a year too long, sleeves shiny with oil and sweat. The faint shimmer of his sweaty neck when he tipped his head back to drink. Even from across the room you caught the smell of him, of cigarette smoke, stale beer, sweat and laundry that hadn’t been washed enough. It clung to him, a cloud you couldn’t ignore.

You drifted toward the safer corner of the room, where some of Mikey’s college friends’ girlfriends clustered together. Girls who didn’t know anyone else either. You stayed with them, not because you fit but because not-belonging is easier in a group.

Hours blurred. Someone broke a glass. Someone else knocked over an ashtray and sent cigarette butts scattering over the floor. Beer soaked into the carpet in dark, sticky patches. By midnight, the crowd had begun to thin. Some had already left, mumbling goodbyes as they staggered into the darkness. Others slumped half-asleep on couches, shoes kicked off, heads tipped back. The music dropped to a low buzz.

That was when you escaped into the kitchen.

It was one of the few quiet rooms left. The light buzzed faintly overhead, a tired hum that seemed louder after the music. The linoleum felt cold under your shoes. For the first time in hours, you could hear yourself think, though your thoughts were as blurred as your vision, dulled by the alcohol you shouldn’t have had. Your head buzzed, not quite pain but the promise that it will hurt the morning after.

And Gerard was already there.

He leaned against the counter like it was the only thing keeping him standing upright. One hand clutched a red cup, the other braced against the laminate, leaving faint wet rings from condensation. His jacket hung halfoff his shoulder. Sweat clung dark at the collar of his shirt. He smelled stronger in the close space, a sharp mix of cigarettes, alcohol and the sour tang of sweat.

“You don’t look like you’re having fun tonight,” he said. His voice was thick, like he was struggling to spurt out his words through the alcohol.

“I’m fine.” You crossed your arms, creating a barrier. “The party’s almost over anyways.”

He stared too long. The kind of stare that pressed heat into your skin, that made your stomach drop. His mouth tugged into something awkward, maybe it was meant as a smile, maybe not.

“You look different,” he said. His hazel eyes glistened, bloodshot, slow in their blinking. “You look older, actually”

You laughed once and short, a humourless laugh. “Well, I am older, Gerard. We haven’t seen each other in years.”

“I know that…” That seemed to spark him. His posture changed, subtly, like your words had given him something to hold onto. He straightened, shoulders tugging up. His hand shifted on the counter, dragging dampness from his cup across the laminate as he inched closer to you.

“You always kept away from me,” he said. His tone was lazy, but something else pulsed underneath it. “Like I was… disgusting.”

The word landed between you.

“Well…” You tilted your head. “I will not be answering that.”

“You’re funny,” he said, but he never actually laughed, his eyes weren’t joking either. They were fixed on you, drinking in your face like he was starving for it.

He leaned closer, inch by inch, not enough to make you move but enough that your skin began to tighten. The hum of the kitchen light grew louder than the music. You wanted to step back, but the counter pressed into your spine.

“You look very pretty now,” he said. The words fell heavy. “Do you know you got very pretty?”

“Yeah…” you said “I went to college and got pretty.”

His eyes dragged downward, stopping lower than they should have, staring where they shouldn’t. His hand shifted again, pretending to adjust his cup but brushing against your wrist. His knuckles were damp, either from sweat or the condensation of the plastic. The touch was clumsy, but it lingered longer than it should have.

Your stomach twisted. You thought about laughing, making it into a joke, letting laughter defuse it the way you’d done before with other men turned strange. But his hand didn’t fall away.

Instead, it grew bolder. His fingers grazed your arm, hesitant at first, sliding higher in drunken increments. His breath warmed the side of your face, sour and wet. He wasn’t speaking anymore. Just staring at your mouth, lips parted, chest dragging air too quickly.

“Gerard,” you said, nervous, smiling still because it was easier to smile. “You’re drunk.”

“So are you” he muttered, words slurred, leaning in closer.

His hand found your waist. Heavy. Hot. The fabric of your shirt clung to your skin where his palm pressed. His fingers spread wide, testing, clumsy but deliberate. He didn’t stop at just resting there. He pushed, pressed, as if to feel how solid you were beneath the thin barrier of cotton.

“Quit it, Gerard” you said, quiet, hoping the words itself might be enough. “Please.”

But he didn’t. His head tipped toward yours, his lips dragging along the corner of your cheek. Wet. Aimless. As if he thought you’d turn into him, meet him halfway. His hand dug firmer at your side, fingers twitching like he wanted more but didn’t know how to take it.

Your stomach lurched. His smell was everywhere, slamming your senses until you could barely breathe. Your nervous smile crumbled.

“No,” you said again, firmer this time. “I don’t see you like that. Stop.”

Realisation hit him. His hand froze for a beat, stiffening before slipping back, fingers curling into a fist. His face twisted, shame flashing across it before he tried to smother it with an awkward smile.

“Sorry,” he started, voice cracking. “I thought that-“

“Well, you thought wrong.”

The silence was suffocating. It filled the room like gas. Outside of the kitchen, the muffled party continued, voices distant, the laughter was oblivious. Upstairs, someone shouted something you couldn’t catch.

You slipped past Gerard with a rush, shoulders taut, lungs tight, his smell clinging to you like it would never wash out.

In the living room, Mikey still laughed too loudly at something you didn’t hear, his friends shouting over each other, TV light flickering blue across their faces. Everything looked the same. Nothing had happened.

You grabbed your jacket from the pile on the couch. “Happy birthday, Mikes,” you said too quickly. “I’m taking a cab home now.”

The night air struck you the moment the door closed behind you, cool and damp and too sharp after the stifling familiarity of the house. The street was quiet save for the faint buzz of a streetlamp, the distant hum of the party and a car engine blocks away. You inhaled deeply, hoping to get rid of him from your lungs, but his taste of smoke and sweat lingered. Even as you walked, the ghost of his hand weighed heavy against your waist.

The night air cut through the drunk's haze in your mind. The street was still and empty. You shoved your hands into your jacket pockets and walked quickly, shoes crunching gravel at the pavement’s edge.

You were but a young woman alone on the street past midnight, praying a cab might miraculously appear. Praying you’d spot some headlights before anyone with ill intent spotted you first.

But none came. Only silence and your own pulse thrummed in your ears.

You paused under a lamplight, thinking about that interaction with Gerard. He was still there, his scent, his stare, the clumsy weight of his hand. You said no. You walked away. Yet your skin felt marked, claimed in some weird, unresolved way.

Maybe that was why you hesitated. Why your feet didn’t carry you any further. Why the thought slipped in, unbidden: What if I went back?

The idea felt painfully humiliating. You hated it. You wanted it. Perhaps both. Maybe you simply wanted to see his face twist again, to taste how wrong it could be if you leaned into the dude you’d spent years avoiding.

“Fuck it,” you whispered and before you could even reconsider, you turned around and ran back.

Back up the pavement, the driveway, past the front steps, then slowed to slip through the half-open door. The lower music hit you like a fist again compared to the empty silence ourside, but the crowd had thinned further.

Mikey sprawled on the couch with a girl, both half-asleep and tangled, mumbling at the television. No one noticed you slip through, your eyes already seeking Gerard.

He wasn’t in the kitchen. You pushed past a couple kissing in the hallway, checked the bathroom… empty, the back porch… just smoke and darkness. Then you remembered, of course, his basement room.

You descended the stairs carefully, one hand sliding along the railing, sticky with someone’s spilled drink. The deeper you went down, the heavier the air grew, stale, warm.

And there he was.

Gerard slumped on an old plaid couch against the far wall, jacket discarded in a heap, a half-empty cup forgotten by his shoes. The glow of a single lamp cast his face into shadow, carving hollows beneath his cheekbones. His greasy hair clung to his temples. His shirt stuck to him in damp patches. He looked wrecked, half-asleep, but his eyes lifted when you stepped into the room.

“You came back?” he said, voice filled with surprise.

You didn’t answer at first. You just stood, heart pounding, staring at this man you’ve known since childhood, reeking of cigarettes and neglect, gazing at you as if you were something he had been dreaming of.

Then you swallowed and spoke plainly, before courage failed you. “I want you to fuck me, Gerard.”

The words fell heavy, heavier than the silence that followed. His eyes widened, then narrowed, confusion that suddenly became something darker. He leaned forward on the couch, elbows on knees, staring at you.

“Are you serious?” His voice was hoarse, broken. “You told me to stop.”

“I changed my mind.” You stepped closer, every nerve shaking, every instinct screaming this was wrong, utterly wrong. Yet your body kept moving. “So fuck me now, Gee.”

He exhaled hard. “Jesus. You’re-” He cut himself off, shook his head as if unsure whether this was a jest or a gift. Then he stood, slow, unsteady, standing closer than you expected.

Up close, his smell was overpowering. Of beer, sweat, the acrid tang of unwashed clothes, stale smoke clinging to his skin. It should have repelled you. Instead, it drew you in.

He didn’t kiss you. He didn’t ask again. He pressed you against the basement’s wooden panelled wall, one hand at your jaw, the other sliding low and possessive at your hip. His movements were clumsy but deliberate, rough in a way that made your pulse stutter. His breath fanned hot over your cheek, words muttered through teeth. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

But you did. That was the worst of it, you actually did.

The basement mirrored him: sketches scattered on the floor, ashtrays teetering on stacks of comic books, a dusty guitar, the sour reek of old laundry piled in corners. It was messy, chaotic, unwholesome. Just like him. Just like this.

The sound of his belt unbuckling sent a shiver through you, and you took it as a cue to unbutton your trousers. His dark jeans and underwear pooled at his ankles, while you hesitated, pulling yours down slowly. Your underwear remained. You suddenly felt shy. The question of what the fuck were tou truly doing, would not leave your mind.

Gerard pressed you against the poster-plastered wall, his body crushing against yours, lips smashing into your mouth. The kiss was rough, barely pleasurable, the gag-inducing taste of mixed booze was intoxicating you even more. You tried to reciprocate, battling with lips and tongue, teeth clashing, his scent and the room’s staleness flooding your nose.

His cock brushed your exposed thigh, its hardness grazing you with every movement of his mouth. One hand groped you aggressively over your underwear, the wet spot growing with each touch, while the other pinned your hips to the wall. Your hands stayed limp at your sides, but your body betrayed you, hips seeking his, begging for some relief.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.

“Ask me once more and I’ll walk away.”

His hand shoved your underwear aside, and in one swift motion, he buried himself in you. He moved with a confidence you lacked, his drunken ease guiding where you froze. You stood still, letting him take control. He wanted this, after all.

A soft moan slipped past your lips, betraying you as you bit them to shut the sound, wary of getting the attention of those upstairs. You were lucky no one had seen you enter, you said to yourself, as Gerard’s wet lips settled on your neck, suckling the thin skin. His hips worked against you, urging you to fight the impulse to moan aloud.

His sweaty hair smeared against your shirt as his head dipped, kissing and sucking, nibbling softly up your neck and behind your ear. “I wouldn’t mind doing this regularly if he bathed more often,” you thought, your eyes rolling back as his right hand reached for your clit. His thumb pressed your nub, circling too fast at first, then settling into a steadier rhythm. His teeth grazed your ear, low groans escaping his throat.

Gerard’s free hand roamed your half-clothed body, tugging your shirt’s edge slowly. “I will leave the shirt on” you said and he nodded at your words, whispering a soft “okay”. This was just a quick fuck, you didn’t want to spend unnecessary time dressing after it was done and before you could dip home.

Part of you dreaded the inevitable future dinners and BBQs at the Ways’ home, your parents dragging you along, forcing you to meet Gerard’s eyes and ask him to pass you the salt after hearing him moan your name and fuck you with steady thrusts.

Those thoughts of the future vanished as his left hand dragged from your breasts to your throat, fingers wrapping around it with gentle pressure, beginning to choke you.

“Harder,” you said, a smile breaking through your voice now broken by the pleasure and the grip on your neck.

He obliged. Everything went harder. His choke, his kisses against your head, his thrusts, his groans, your moans.

Your clumsy hands tried to join the act without success, drunken awkwardness stopping every attempt to touch his dirty body. You reminded yourself he was inside you, thinking how absurd were such hesitations.

Gerard’s wet kisses trailed from your ear, down your jaw and finally settled on your lips. His hunger was palpable, messier than before. The smell of sweat and sex thickened in the enclosed space, but you no longer cared.

“I’ve thought about this for a while,” he confessed between kisses. “I’ve come so many times imagining you like this.”

His hand on your throat shifted to your shoulder, slamming you against the wall. Your back struck hard with each thrust, knocking air from your lungs.

His mouth roamed down your chin and neck again, slipping out of you, making you whimper at the emptiness. His hands seized your waist, guiding you to his unmade bed, where you rested on the edge, legs dangling on the side. He grabbed a pillow—no pillow case and stained, of course, and propped it beneath your hips, raising them. Kneeling between your legs, he re-entered you, drawing a loud moan from your lips as he filled you again.

Gerard’s hands lifted your shirt, exposing your stomach. They gripped your bra, pulling the cups to reveal your breasts. His mouth found them instantly, tongue matching the rhythm of his thrusts against your cervix. His teeth nibbled your left nipple, blending soft pain with waves of pleasure. He paused then to stare at you.

His left hand cupped your chin firmly, applying pressure, his eyes locking onto yours. His dark hair, now fully wet, clung to his face and neck. Heavy breathing. He then spit on your chest, his thrusts growing erratic.

You sensed he was close. The thought of him finishing for you pushed you near the edge as well.

He felt your grip tighten around him and smiled, noticing your hand toying with your clit to ensure you’d finish with him.

“What would your parents think if they knew?” he said, not as dirty talk but with genuine concern, his movements unrelenting.

“They won’t know, Gerard,” you whispered, voice thin, focused on finishing as quickly as possible to leave.

He fell silent, hands dropping to your hips, gripping tightly, leaving pale marks on your reddened skin. You watched him close his eyes, lips pressed together. He was very good looking, he was genuinely a beautiful man, you admitted. Gerard Way wasn’t unattractive.

“Shit,” he said, stopping you cold as he pulled out. “Sorry. I can help you if-”

“It’s fine. I’m done, thank you.”

“You know where the bathroom is,” he said, retrieving your jeans from the floor and passing them to you. “Feel free to shower before you go.”

“You’re not going to offer me to stay the night? You don’t make me come and then rush me out…” You laughed, irony sharp, as you lifted yourself from the bed and headed to the bathroom. “No wonder you’re single, Gee.”

Gerard looked confused and embarrassed. He hadn’t meant it that way. His hands trembled as he pulled up his underwear.

“I just thought you’d want to stay,” he admitted. “But I’d rather you did, actually.”

You smiled from the bathroom door, peeling off your shirt fully now.

“I think you should shower with me. You could really use one.”

[afraidoflittleauldme]

I want to give two shoutouts:

1. Huge shoutout to Sam (wickediero) on TikTok (I don’t know their tumblr acc sorry!) for that insane Gerard edit with Closer by NIN (!!). They also recommended I Want To Feel You From The Inside and gave me so much exposure over there, I’m so grateful!!!

2. Massive love to my friend @texassmashmyass, their new basement!Gerard fic “Easy Target” is everything. I’ve already read it more times TODAY than I want to admit. If you’re into the way I write Basement Gerard, this one will make you go fucking feral.

That’s all for now! Just a reminder that my requests are ALWAYS OPEN, so feel free to drop some any time. Slán!

[afraidoflittleauldme]

Easy Target

Word Count: 4.5k

Summary: What starts as another round of teasing Gerard in his basement slips quickly out of your hands. He’s awkward, desperate, and starved for affection. But when he finally gets a taste, he doesn’t let go, no matter how many times you try to pull away.

Tags/warnings: smut, dub/con, size difference, loss of virginity, switch!gerard, basement!gerard, manipulation, coercion, pwp

The basement reeked of dust, smoke, and sweat. Stagnant, stale, same as always. You still had to remind yourself to breathe through your mouth instead of your nose.

You padded down the creaky steps, taking in the familiar scene. Wood-paneled walls displayed an array of posters alongside shelves crammed with toys. The floor was a disaster zone of dirty clothes, scattered papers, empty beer and soda cans, CD cases, and comics.

You were supposed to meet Mikey here to pregame before hitting a party. As a regular fixture in the Way family’s life, you always walked right in without bothering to knock. But when you entered, you realized the house was empty except for Mikey’s older brother, who spent most of his time wallowing down here.

You couldn’t help yourself. By now, it was practically a ritual. You’d play video games with Mikey, watch movies, or listen to CDs until boredom inevitably set in. Then you’d need entertainment, and your best friend’s older brother made an easy target. While you thrived around people—especially the introverts you liked to collect—Gerard lurked like a self-deprecating shadow, hovering nearby but never fully engaging.

You never missed how his stare lingered too long on you. Over the years, you’d grown used to it, brushing it off because he was just Gerard. The quiet, shy, loser older brother who still lived in his parents’ basement. You’d caught him watching and waiting, sometimes with a sketchpad and pencil in hand. Once, when you came over to hang with Mikey, you glimpsed his sketchbook and spotted a drawing that looked eerily like you. It fed your ego perfectly, and Gerard looked ready to pass out when he realized you’d seen it.

Now Gerard hunched over his desk, long, greasy hair shielding his face. The light from his desk lamp caught the oil slick in his unwashed strands. He wore the same jacket you’d seen him wear dozens of times before. Honestly, you doubted he’d washed it since buying it.

His hands scratched a pencil against paper in quick, nervous strokes. He didn’t turn to look at you, but his shoulders tensed up, betraying that he knew he wasn’t alone anymore.

The corners of your lips twitched, already anticipating how he would squirm. “You’re such a little hermit, you know that?” You leaned back, hip resting against the desk as you studied him. “I’m starting to think you’ve fused to that chair.”

He didn’t look up, only angled the paper away from you, shoulder curling inward. “I’m busy.”

“Busy, huh?” You braced your hands on the desk before hopping up onto it. As you leaned in closer, the unmistakable smell of BO hit your nose. Your nose crinkled slightly, but you pressed on. “Can I see what you’re working on? Or do I need top secret clearance?”

His hand froze mid-stroke, hazel eyes flicking up to meet yours before darting away. “It’s not... ready.”

Victory. You had cracked his focus.

His eyebrow arched skeptically. “Shouldn’t you be with my brother?”

You smiled down at him sweetly. “I was supposed to meet him, but he’s running late, so I figured I’d come say hi to you instead. I mean, I’ve known you for years now, Gerard. Wouldn’t you say we’re friends?”

Gerard’s entire body went rigid. He looked up at you with that sharp, calculating stare that always made your stomach flutter with nerves. You quickly buried the feeling, maintaining your innocent smile.

“Yeah, friends, I guess.” His voice came out soft and gentle, and you almost felt bad for the way you’d been stringing him along all these years.

Almost.

You tilted your head, watching him return to his scribbling. His shoulders tight, dark hair falling like a curtain across his face. You’d been friends with Mikey long enough to recognize how Gerard’s whole body went on high alert whenever you entered a room.

And you absolutely loved it.

“Y’know,” you said casually, legs swinging from the desk, “you’re really terrible at hiding secrets.”

His pencil stopped, hovering over the page. “Secrets?” The word came out strained, and you watched with satisfaction as his knuckles turned white around the pencil.

“Mhmm.” You leaned in closer, deliberately pressing your chest against his shoulder as you reached up. The greasy texture of his unwashed hair made you cringe internally, but you pushed through it, lips hovering near his ear. “Like how you stare at me when you think I’m not looking.”

He choked on a sharp gasp, his hand jerking and smearing graphite across the paper. Ducking his head lower, he mumbled, “That’s not-”

You grinned, cutting him off. “Gerard, tell me something. Ever had a girlfriend?”

You already knew the answer. In all the years you’d been friends with Mikey, Gerard had never brought a girl home, never even mentioned one. Mikey always said his brother was different—shy, artsy, sensitive. Girls just didn’t get him.

But you knew better. Sure, he was all those things, but that wasn’t what kept girls away. It was the self-deprecating cloud that followed him everywhere, the way he barely took care of himself, how he watched everyone from the shadows. It made people uncomfortable. If you hadn’t been Mikey’s friend for so long, you’d probably avoid Gerard too.

The question hung heavy in the air. Seconds stretched into minutes, into hours. You could swear the tips of his ears turned red.

“N-No.”

You dragged the word out in a mocking coo. “Nooo? Really?” He shook his head, eyes glued to the desk. You scooted closer, your thigh pressing against his body.

“What about kissing? Have you kissed a girl, even once?”

His jaw clenched. The pencil snapped clean in half between his fingers. You jumped at the sharp crack but quickly pushed down your surprise. The broken pieces clattered onto the desk as his hands trembled against his thighs.

“...No,” he finally admitted, voice barely a whisper.

Your smile widened like a cat cornering a mouse. Sliding off the desk, you pushed Gerard’s chair back and stepped between his legs. You loomed over him, watching how he shrank deeper into his seat, hazel eyes darting everywhere but your face, his breathing shallow and uneven.

“Christ,” you whispered, running your fingers through his hair, nails dragging against his scalp. He leaned into your hand like a touch-starved cat. You traced your fingers down his head before brushing over his jaw, gripping his chin so he had no choice but to look up at you. “You’re 22, live at your parents’ house, still waiting on your first kiss? That’s…” Your grin sharpened. “Pathetic. Kind of cute, though.”

He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. You were pushing this further than before. You couldn’t help it. Mikey was still gone, and all you had to pass the time was teasing Gerard.

“Do you want me to teach you, Gerard?” Your thumb brushed over his bottom lip, feeling it tremble beneath your touch. “Want me to be your first?”

A sound escaped him, half groan, half breath, and he shut his eyes, shame painting his face scarlet.

“Come on, big guy. Use your words.”

A shuddered breath left his lips as he nodded. “Yes, please. I… I think about it,” he whispered. “I think about kissing you all the time. More than I should.”

“Of course you do,” you murmured, leaning closer until your nose brushed his. “Bet you touch yourself too, huh? Pretending it’s me.”

His breath caught, and he gripped his thighs for support, starting to lean in. “...Yeah,” he confessed, voice cracking.

Your smirk faltered for a moment. You could feel the raw, desperate honesty radiating from his trembling body.

This was getting too real. You never went this far. You weren’t supposed to go this far. Guilt crept into your chest as your eyes flickered toward the basement stairs. Mikey was still gone, and you weren’t sure how much longer he’d take. You should’ve stayed upstairs and waited.

The air between you shifted, and you leaned back, letting him go. He whimpered at the loss of contact and the distance you created. Want and need poured off of him, and you wouldn’t be lying if you said Gerard was probably hiding a boner in his pants.

Your confidence evaporated, replaced by guilt and the nagging worry that Mikey could walk in at any second. “I, uh- I have to go now.”

You spun toward the stairs, but a firm grip on your wrist jerked you back. Your body lurched backward, and you turned to find Gerard staring up at you with those wide hazel eyes. “Please don’t leave.”

You pulled at your arm, but his grip held firm. Your lip curled in irritation. “Jesus, dude. Let go.” He didn’t budge, his long unclipped nails pressing into your skin.

“Y-You know, I’m not stupid.” You froze, eyebrow arched as he stared down at his lap, voice barely above a whisper. “I know what you were doing. What you always do.” When his eyes found yours again, you were startled to see them shining with unshed tears. “I know you mess with me because you think it’s funny.”

The guilt slammed into you again. “That’s not tr-”

He shook his head, cutting you off. “I know you like playing with my feelings. Leading me on. I-” His voice cracked. “I get it. I’m an easy target. But I wasn’t lying when I said I think about-” He paused, drawing a shaky breath. “About kissing you and touching you. And I want you to be my first.”

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. You could do this. Kissing Gerard wouldn’t be the end of the world... But if anyone discovered what happened, it would mean social suicide. Hell, if Mikey found out, you’d have to explain why you were messing around with his older brother.

“Fine. One kiss. That’s it, okay?”

Gerard’s head bobbed eagerly before he released your wrist, sniffling and wiping his eyes with his jacket sleeve. “Really?”

He stood up, and you instinctively stepped back. He was looming over you now, and while you’d always known Gerard was bigger than you, it had never really hit you before—he usually hunched in on himself, trying to disappear in crowds. Your nerves started getting the better of you, so you pressed your hands against his chest, guiding him toward the couch with its questionable stains.

“Um, why don’t we sit down?”

Gerard nodded and moved toward the couch, settling right in the middle before looking up at you expectantly. You let out a long breath and sat beside him, the cushion dipping from your combined weight so your thighs pressed together.

You stared up at him to find he was already looking down at you. His greasy strands fell into his face, his flannel stained and wrinkled. You couldn’t help thinking that if he actually took care of himself, he’d have real potential. His eyes were pretty, and his face had that soft-yet-sharp quality that worked. His fists clenched in his lap, and you could tell he was a bundle of nerves. “Dude, you need to calm down. Take a deep breath or something. It’s not like I’m going to hurt you.”

He nodded and followed your instructions, breathing in and out slowly. “Okay, so what now?”

Jesus, he was looking at you with such wide, hopeful eyes. You felt like complete shit. He hadn’t done anything wrong to warrant your years of teasing, other than just existing. You breathed in and out, giving him a small smile. You couldn’t tell if it looked convincing.

“Well, when you kiss, you start slow, okay?” He nodded, and you gulped. This was it.

You reached out, cupping his cheek before leaning up, your nose brushing against his. His eyes fluttered closed, and you closed yours as you pressed your lips against his.

Slow. Gentle. Just like you’d promised.

Your lips moved against his slowly, trying to set the pace, but he was overeager and clumsy, crashing his mouth against yours. You tried to keep control and guide him. You were supposed to be his first kiss, to show him what to do so that if some girl actually let him within a 10-foot radius, he might have some clue how to handle it.

His hands wrapped around your waist, pressing against your bare skin where your shirt had lifted, fingers flexing before pushing you back against the cushion, caging you in. Heat flared through you, and a shiver crawled down your spine. Your eyes snapped open in shock, and you squirmed underneath him, only to freeze completely. Something hard pressed against your thigh, and you couldn’t help but cringe and feel aroused at the same time. Gerard shoved his tongue into your mouth with painfully obvious inexperience. You pressed your hands against his shoulders, trying to push him off.

You turned your head, breaking the kiss. He continued anyway, lips trailing across your cheek, jaw, and neck before moving up to your ear. You shuddered involuntarily, thighs clenching. This is enough. You needed to end this now.

“Alright, Gerard, that’s it. You finally got to kiss a girl.”

Gerard whimpered, teeth grazing your earlobe, and you squirmed beneath him more. Pinned on the couch underneath him, you were consumed by an overwhelming scent that could only be Gerard: sweat, body odor, cigarette smoke, and coffee. It made your head dizzy, almost to the point where you thought it didn’t smell that bad.

“Please, just a little more?” He kept kissing you, taking breaks between to speak, his body weight holding you down. “I never thought I’d actually get to do this with you and I-” he paused, bottom lip wobbling, “I know you think I’m just a joke, but I really like you. I always have.”

His confession brought forth a mix of emotions, the biggest being disgust: both with him and yourself. It wasn’t his fault he was a needy virgin who’d never even kissed anyone. Well, maybe it was, but you were the one who sought him out. You were the one getting off on seeing how desperate he was.

You rolled your eyes, not wanting him to see the conflicting emotions you were feeling, then moved your hands from his shoulders to the sides of his face. You held him still, and he stared down at you, tears now streaming down his cheeks. Seeing that sent a shock straight to your core, making you want him even more.

“Just shut up and kiss me.”

He obliged and leaned in again, crushing his lips against yours. There was no rhythm between you; Gerard’s inexperience showed with every clumsy movement. Maybe he’d improve with practice. You caught yourself before shaking your head at the thought.

This was supposed to be a one-time thing.

Gerard’s body pressed against yours as he whimpered into your mouth, grinding his hips against your thigh. You felt his hardness through his jeans and shifted your hips away, trying to create distance. He either missed the hint or chose to ignore it. He kept pressing against your thighs, rutting like he couldn’t control himself. His hands slid up from your waist to your chest, groping and pawing hungrily. His fingers slipped beneath your bra, grabbing and pinching until he found your nipple and began rolling it between his fingertips.

You broke the kiss and turned your head away. “All right, that’s it. We’re done. I’m done.” His face was flushed, lips swollen, and you watched disappointment wash over his features. “I only agreed to kiss you. Nothing else.”

A desperate sound escaped him, but he didn’t stop groping you or grinding against your body. “Please, just a little more?”

You shook your head as anxiety crept up your spine. “No, dude.” You pressed your hands against his chest, pushing. “Get off me.”

He crushed his lips to yours again, desperate and pleading. “Just a little more. Please.” He pinched your nipple hard, making you gasp in pain. “I want to make you feel good. I need this. I need you.”

His other hand dropped down, rubbing clumsily at your crotch. You tried to squirm away, but only sank deeper into the couch cushions. No amount of pushing or shoving seemed to budge Gerard.

You couldn’t ignore the heat building in your core as his hand ground the seam of your jeans against you. Your eyes darted nervously toward the stairs, and you whispered hoarsely, “Hurry up. I don’t want Mikey walking in.”

He nodded, tears streaming down his face and dripping onto yours. “Yeah, okay.” Gerard wasted no time. He lifted himself off you, his hand leaving your skin and giving you space to breathe before his fingers hooked under your jeans and panties, yanking them down roughly.

You lifted your hips to help, wiggling free before kicking the fabric over your feet. He tugged at your shirt’s hem, and you rolled your eyes before reaching down to pull it off along with your bra. Stupid virgin.

Gerard’s hazel eyes drank in your body, memorizing every detail. You had the unsettling feeling he’d use this as inspiration for his sketchpad later. His hands trembled, hovering uncertainly over your skin. You huffed, caught between sexual frustration and nerves-while you’d controlled him emotionally for years, stringing him along and teasing, Gerard had proven tonight that he could physically overpower you.

“Goddammit.” You grabbed his hand and looked up at him through your lashes before wrapping your lips around two of his fingers. He choked watching your mouth work, sucking and sliding before releasing them with a pop. “Touch me here.” You guided his hand between your legs, pressing his fingers against your clit and moving them in steady circles. You shuddered at the relief, eyes fluttering closed before meeting Gerard’s gaze.

He rubbed you as you’d shown him, his other hand gripping the bulge in his pants, palming himself for friction. He stared down at you like you were something precious, valuable, that he was corrupting just by touching. Though still shaking and nervous, he grew more confident hearing your quiet, breathy moans. He leaned down, nuzzling into your neck, his tongue tracing your skin before nipping gently.

You felt wetness gathering between your thighs, clenching around his hand. You needed more.

“Give me your other hand. I need more.” He paused, stopping his movements before reaching toward your outstretched hand. You finally looked at it and noticed his fingernails were dirty and overgrown. You grimaced. There was no way in hell those were going inside you.

You scoffed, pushing his hand away. “Come on… Learn some basic hygiene, and maybe girls would actually want to be around you.”

He flinched at your words and sat up. His eyebrows furrowed, and you couldn’t tell if it was sexual frustration or something else, but he pulled back from you, his fingers leaving your clit. Before you could yell at him, pissed that he’d not only pressured you to continue but also stopped touching you, he grabbed your hips in a harsh grip.

“Stop talking to me like that.” Your eyes narrowed as you propped yourself up on your elbows. He stared back, eyes and nose red from crying earlier. “I know you think you’re better than me. You make that clear every single time I see you, but you’re naked in my room getting off to my hands.”

You opened your mouth to argue that you weren’t even close to getting off, but the sound of a zipper stopped you. You stared in shock as he shoved his pants and boxers down in one desperate motion, his dick springing free. Average length, tip red and swollen, leaking precum. Dark curls surrounded it, and you weren’t surprised by the lack of grooming, but it was the smell of musk that overwhelmed your senses.

You stared at him, stunned. This wasn’t supposed to go this far. Before you could pull away, Gerard was back on you, his pudgy stomach pressing against yours.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Your hands scrambled to his chest as you squirmed, trying to avoid contact with his dick. “I didn’t agree to this. I only said I’d let you touch me.”

He pushed his knee between your legs, spreading them so he could settle between. His breath was hot against your ear as he nuzzled into your neck, breathing in your scent. Another wave of arousal shot through your core, and your hips instinctively met his. “M’sorry…” He kissed your neck—sloppy and wet. “I want to make you feel good. I want to feel good.”

His hips ground against yours, his dick sliding against your slick folds. His body shuddered, and another desperate moan escaped his lips. He continued rutting against you, and you felt tears prick the corners of your eyes as the tip of his dick caught at your entrance. He didn’t hesitate, pushing inside with an urgency that left your head spinning. You weren’t a virgin by any means, but you still felt your walls stretch around his length. He moved only halfway before pulling back and pressing deeper. He kept this rhythm until he was fully buried inside you, then began grinding his hips against yours. The pressure of his dick against your cervix was uncomfortable yet sent desire coursing through your body.

“Shit, shit, shit. You feel amazing,” he gasped before his hips slammed against yours in fast, brutal thrusts. Each impact knocked the air from your lungs as his weight crashed into you.

Gerard moaned- loud and desperate. “Fuck- you’re so good. So good. Perfect,” he mumbled against your skin.

You couldn’t help but glow at the praise, lifting your hips to meet his thrusts. You knew that in his eyes, you were perfect. Your hand slipped down between your bodies, and you didn’t care that he was sweaty, disheveled, and desperately needed a shower. You needed to cum.

Your fingers found your clit, and you began rubbing yourself as he sank deep inside you. Gerard felt your hand move and pushed his upper body up, watching your joined bodies as you touched yourself while he thrust in and out. He couldn’t decide where to look. Everything captivated him: your furrowed brow, glassy eyes that still held traces of anger, flushed cheeks, bruised lips, breasts bouncing with each movement, your hand working frantically between your legs, desperate for release.

“So beautiful. So beautiful, and all mine.”

You rolled your eyes, lifting your hips and rubbing faster, chasing your climax. He pushed your hand away and replaced it with his own. His movements were clumsy, and the orgasm you’d been building toward slipped further from reach.

You huffed, pushing at his arm. “You’re not doing it right.”

His hand stayed put. He stared down at you intently. “Then show me.”

You placed your hand over his and guided him to the rhythm you needed. He actually maintained a decent pace and stayed where you wanted him. You squeezed your eyes shut and focused on how his cock felt inside you, tip pressing against your cervix, his body pinning you down, and his thick fingers working against you. Your breathing became quick and shallow, and you could feel it building. You were almost there.

Breathy moans escaped your lips, and for a brief moment, you considered letting Gerard touch you like this more often. You gripped his wrist like a lifeline while his hand rubbed your clit and he fucked you relentlessly. His mouth found your neck again, sucking and biting at your skin, whimpering as he moved in and out. Almost there. Your back arched and your toes curled as you tumbled over the edge. You whimpered, and Gerard swallowed the sound, kissing you as you rode out your orgasm.

Your body went limp, but he kept moving inside you while his hand continued on your clit, leaving you overstimulated. You twisted in his grip, pushing his hand away. “Too much.”

His hand left your clit and gripped your hips, holding on for dear life. He pulled you down on him, each thrust becoming more erratic than the last. Any semblance of rhythm was gone—he was using you. You looked up to find him staring down at you, sweat dripping down his face, plastering his greasy hair to his head and neck, brows knitted together in concentration.

“Shit, I’m almost there.”

Panic shot through you, but before you could tell him to pull out, he slumped over you, face pressing into your hair as he breathed in your scent, groaning as he spilled into you. You felt his dick twitch inside you as he thrust in and out, slowly pumping everything into you.

The room now reeked of sex, and the only sounds came from both of your ragged breathing. He slowly sat up, using his elbows to hold his body above yours. His softening dick was still inside you, and he looked down at you with tender eyes. “Thank you, I really enj-”

You cut him off, pushing at his chest. “I know. Now get off.”

He went quiet but obliged, pulling out slowly. You cringed at the feeling of your wetness and his cum spilling over your thighs.

He winced seeing how upset you looked and grabbed a shirt that had been lying on the floor, lifting it to your legs. “Here.” He grabbed your knee and opened your legs as he wiped your thighs clean, then threw the shirt back on the floor.

You sat up, avoiding eye contact as you rushed to pull your clothes back on. “No one will find out about this. Ever.”

Gerard nodded in agreement, though hurt flickered across his face. You couldn’t worry about that now. You had done much more with him tonight than you ever intended. As you pulled your pants on, you heard the front door upstairs slam shut before your name was called out. Your heart sank into your stomach.

Shit. Mikey.

You jumped up, running your fingers through your hair, trying to make yourself look presentable before glaring back at Gerard. “Hurry up,” you hissed.

He nodded, eyes darting from the upstairs door back to you as he tugged his pants on, struggling to keep his balance while you rushed up the stairs.

You made it to the top, glancing down to ensure Gerard was dressed before opening the door with a wide smile, trying to look as innocent as possible. Mikey stood in the entryway, looking around the house until he spotted you in the doorway. “Mikey! What took you so long?”

Mikey launched into a story about someone at the store. You smiled and nodded, not really listening, until he paused mid-sentence. “Were you just downstairs with Gerard while you waited?”

You laughed, trying to sound natural while scrambling for a lie that didn’t involve admitting you’d been bullying his older brother and taking his virginity. “Yeah, I was trying to convince him to come out with us, but you know how he is.”

Mikey glanced back at the top of the stairs where Gerard now stood behind you, his shoulder pressed against the doorframe. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with?”

Gerard hesitated, his eyes flicking from his brother back to you. Your eyes narrowed in warning, and the corners of his mouth curved up slightly. “Actually, yeah, I’m convinced. I’ll come out for a bit.”

[afraidoflittleauldme]

“On My Way Around I Happened To Fall”

2019 Gerard Way x female reader

Warning: nsfw, smut, oral (both receiving), cheating, age difference, spanking

Word count: 2.8k

Author’s note: I actually had this already drafted and posted on ao3, but I ended up changing a bunch of things (and after hearing Bug by Fontaines Dc live last night, so it’s inspired by that song) I felt completely inspired to rewrite the whole thing. So here it is!

Also can we talk about the absolute lack of 2019 Gerard Way fics? It’s painful like. I need more of that era I CRAVE IT.

This could maybe turn into something longer instead of just a oneshot, but it depends on what ye all want. I’m so lazy and can’t commit, so os are usually my safe zone lmao. But I really do love writing for ye all, so who knows?

Masterlist

You didn’t earn this. That was the constant discourse in your head every night. The words were loud in your head at that exact moment, louder than whatever post-punk band you were blasting in your headphones at one in the morning.

Three months out of your masters degree in Digital Post-Production, suddenly employed by Netflix and moved to Canada, working on the second season of the series adaptation of a comic, The Umbrella Academy. This is the sort of job your former classmates would have killed you for. And all thanks to your charming older cousin Robert Sheehan, who threw your portfolio to the right exec during a hungover brunch in Toronto. Mere luck masquerading as merit. Nepotism in bumping in your veins.

At least that’s what you told yourself, every time you dragged keyframes across a timeline. You thought you weren’t talented, not really, maybe mediocre. And also just adjacent to interesting people. Just riding the Sheehan surname and Robert’s popularity on set. He was talented, endearing, loud, unapologetically himself.

It was 1:43 a.m. The editor’s room felt more like a morgue of screens, with buzzing fluorescents overhead lights, and a lot of empty coffee cups with lipstick on the rims. You were caffeinated into oblivion, your hands shaking as you finessed the pacing of a fight scene you’d watched a thousand times. If you didn’t kill yourself over these edits, someone would eventually say it out loud: that you were just the cousin of one of the lead actors, you didn’t deserve the chair you were sitting on.

You didn’t hear him come in.

“You did this?”

His voice slid through the bass in your headphones, cutting clean. Gerard Way, show’s creator, former rock god, admired by the mass of burnt-out retired emos everywhere (including yourself, honestly).

You didn’t jump. Your brain was too fried to act all jumpy. You just paused the music and let the silence punch holes in your skull as you swiveled halfway in your chair. Enough to confirm he wasn’t a hallucination created by exhaustion, coffee and that godawful Monster energy drink you were chugging. Then you turned back to the rimeline on your screen.

“Yeah,” you said, dry. “Sorry if it’s too much.”

“It’s perfect.”

He dragged the word out. Per-fect. Like it tasted weird in his mouth.

You wanted him to leave. But you also wanted him to stay and recognise your work. You just wanted to scream at someone.

He didn’t move. Just lingered behind your chair like static, his silhouette soaking up the glow of your monitor with arms crossed. He was wearing black clothes as usual. Black t-shirt with a silly print in it, jeans a bit loose on his frame and that military green jacket that he never took off. His hair was long and messy, falling over his face like he hadn’t brushed it in days probably. His eyes were exhausted, probably from sleepless nights in the writers’ room.

And then there was the ring.

Gold, simple, catching the light as he folded his arms. The wedding band, flashing your monitor’s light every time he moved his hand.

It felt like a fucking wall.

You forced your eyes back to the timeline. Pretended you didn’t notice him watching you. Pretended you weren’t prickling under the heat of his stare.

“Do you always work this late?” he asked.

You should’ve lied. Should’ve said no straight away, that tonight’s a fluke, just wrapping things up. But you were too tired to be clever.

“I don’t have much going on at home, honestly.” you said. You didn’t lie. You were living alone for the first time ever, you mostly spend your free time scrolling on Instagram or awaiting for a decent time to video call your friends from back home.

You were finding it lonely, the whole being abroad thing. Canada hadn’t exactly been your dream destination, but when a job like this fell into your unemployed lap, you weren’t in a position to say no. Making friends in a new country in your mid-twenties felt like trying to start a fire with wet matches. The only person who ever pulled you out of your cave was your cousin Robert, who insisted you tag along with him and the rest of the cast on your days off. To you that sounded like a punishment, spending hours with people who were all objectively brighter, louder and cooler than you could ever dream to be.

Gerard just hummed, low in his throat. Like he understood too well. Maybe he felt the same. Maybe he didn’t. Sure, he had a wife, a child, a cat, a whole family. Maybe that was just your ache trying to stitch itself.

You didn’t want to admit the real reason you worked until dawn every day: overcompensation. You thought if you killed yourself here, maybe someone would forget Robert Sheehan’s last name matched yours. Maybe they’d believe you belonged here because of your skills. Otherwise you’d be back in your mother’s house in Dublin, working as a failed barista with a useless arts degree and a mother who would sigh loudly at the dinner table, reminding you for the thousandth time that you should have studied business instead.

The cursor blinked on the screen.

Gerard came closer. You could feel it without looking. The air tightened around you. His jacket rustled. His boots scuffed the carpeted floor.

“Your edits cuts” he said. His voice softer now. “That’s weird... Looks great.”

You didn’t want to feel that. You didn’t want to feel anything. But your chest clenched, traitor and your throat went hot. A praise from him was like a drug, you craved it, you feared becoming addicted to it, you wanted to drown in it until you woke up broke.

“Thank you” you muttered. You clenched your fists under the desk, nails carving half-moons into your palms. You wanted to cry. You wanted to throw up. You wanted to fuck him. All at once.

He didn’t leave. He just stood behind you, arms crossed, ring glinting. Watching. Waiting.

You thought about what he felt like. Not as a celebrity. But as a mortal man. A man with rings he probably fiddled with during panic attacks. A man with a wife and a family.

The cursor blinked again. The silence thickened.

Then he leaned down, close enough that you could now smell his breath: stale coffee. His long hair brushed your shoulder. You didn’t breathe.

“Do you ever stop?” he asked, low, almost amused.

“Are you sending me home, sir?”

That made him laugh. A small, broken laugh, roughened by sleeplessness. He stayed there, leaning over your chair like gravity had tilted him towards you.

“I think we both should go to your home.”

And that was the first time you realized he wasn’t untouchable. He was cracked glass.

You told yourself you didn’t care. You told yourself you wouldn’t let this mean anything. But you knew already: you wanted him. You wanted him the way you wanted every wrong thing.

—————

You had a whole silent drive to say no. To change your mind. To make the right decision. It didn’t happen.

Your apartment smelled like reheated instant noodles, damp carpet that your landlord wouldn’t replace and the faint lingering scent of the breakfast tea bags that your mother sent you from Ireland. The kettle was leaking, the box of snacks Robert had claimed as his sat open on the counter, salt and vinegar flavoured crisps spilling over the edge.

Over the doorframe hung a picture of Jesus, next to it a Saint Brigid’s cross. You were an atheist. Yet all of it made the space yours, chaotic and nonsensical. Posters from movies nobody cool would ever care about crowded the walls.

Gerard stood in the doorway, scanning the clutter, his hazel eyes darkened and look tired. When he looked at you, it was as if everything in the room made complete sense to him, like the chaos of your life was some kind of signal he had been waiting for all along.

“You were a fan,” he said with sparkling eyes, nodding towards the Three Cheers vinyl on the wall. His lips quirked in a big smile.

You rolled your eyes, heat climbing to your chest. “Yeah. Big time. I saw you in Dublin in 2011. I was eighteen.”

He went still, the smile faltering. Almost like you had struck a nerve he had buried deep and thought long dead.

“Oh God,” he muttered. “Eighteen… yikes. You are going to make me walk away now.”

A lump formed in your throat. The first real stab of guilt hit you in the chest, sharp and insistent. “I screamed so loud my voice cracked for a week. I also used to write bad fanfics about you. Nothing weird though.”

Why had you even said that out loud? At least you got a big laugh out of it.

He sat down on the edge of your couch, denim creaking beneath him, hands brushing over the cluttered sofa. You saw it again, that gold wedding band on his finger. His poor wife. The weight of it made your chest constrict, a bitter reminder that you were stepping into something forbidden, but very exciting. You hated yourself for wanting him, for the way your body was already betraying you, craving him.

“You’re a fucking menace” he said hoarsely.

“Well,” you replied “You are in my apartment now. So what does that make you, Gerard?”

He stood and kissed you. Hard, desperate, feral. You bit his lip, timid at first. You were a mess of need and guilt and want.

“Don’t say my name like that.” he groaned. “Fuck.”

Actions flowed so naturally, and by the time you realised, you were already suddenly stripped bare, lying across your mattress, wrists tied in a loose knot with the strings of your hoodie. His weight hovered over you, scent of cigarettes, sweat and coffee.

“Are you going to be good for me?” he asked, voice low, dangerous, pressing in on your chest, your mind, your body.

You nodded, unable to speak, pressing your face into the sheets.

“No” he said, tightening the knot. “Use your words.”

“Yes. I want to be good for you, sir.”

Gerard laughed at that last word, as if it didn’t actually make his dick twitch. He groaned then, sharp, his hands digging into your hips, leaving marks on your skin. “Fuck. You’re the worst.”

“So punish me then” you whispered.

And he did.

With his mouth. With his fingers. With that filthy, low voice in your ear calling you his good girl, his perfect little girl, while the gold band gleamed at you with every movement. A cruel, shining reminder that what you were doing was wrong.

He flipped you onto his lap, ass high, stomach pressed to his knees. His left hand stayed planted at the top of your back, rough and calloused from years that passes by. Occasionally, his thumb brushed through your hair, a soft and tender touch before going away again. His right hand moved slowly over your curves, spanking you with deliberate cruelty. Every impact made you wetter, every time the he hit you, it sting and made your pulse race.

“You’re taking this so well, baby” he murmured, you could hear him smirking.

His fingers slipped along your slit, gathering your slickness. He pressed them to your mouth and you went along with it, tasting yourself on him, tasting the wrongness of it all.

“You taste good, sugar?” he asked and you didn’t even dare answer with words, only nodding, still wrapping your lips around his fingers, running your tongue along them.

“Let me taste you, then” he whispered, laying you down and spreading your legs carefully.

Then he didn’t even tease. He plunged into you like he was starving, tongue and fingers all urgent, desperate and so very messy. The scruff of his beard burned against your inner thighs. His left hand pressed down on your stomach, intensifying everything, reminding you how much you wanted him, how much you wanted this, even as your mind kept flashing to his wife: older, composed, the mother of his child, everything you were not. His right hand curled inside you, finger curling, finding and hitting the spot that made your knees tremble.

Every moan and every small whimper carried guilt and he savoured it fully. His presence made you forget all morality. You wanted him to claim you as his and it frightened you.

“Please” you whimpered, hips writhing. “I’m so close…”

He pulled back, taking his fingers out, leaving you clenching on air, shaking and exposed.

“You only come when I tell you to, understood?” he murmured, pulling softly on your hair, then spat lightly on your face. “You taste exquisite, princess.”

Gerard was sitting on the edge of your bed, cock hard and unashamed, as he watched you struggle with your make-shift restraints. A cruel smile spread across his face.

“You’ll have to help me here” you whispered, kneeling between his legs, wrists still tied.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’m here” he said. He shoved his dick into your mouth without hesitation, hands gripping your head. You felt every inch of him, consumed and trapped.

“I’m so proud of you, baby” he groaned. “Do guys your age fuck your mouth like I do?”

You bobbed your head, tasting him, trying to answer as you gagged on him.

“Stop” he cried, pulling you away “I want to come inside you instead.”

Gerard grabbed you once again, placing you on the bed steadily, positioning himself between your legs once again.

He slid into you from behind, slow, deliberate, intimate in a way that felt like violence. Once again… Every thrust reminded you of her, of the life he had outside your room, of his wife’s sense of self, her calmness, so cool and she didn’t even need to try. She was effortlessly everything you were not. You compared yourself constantly with everybody in your head, and right now you were wondering why he chose you. But he did, with a weird certainty.

“You feel that?” he murmured against your neck. “You’re mine now.”

“Yes, fuck, yes” you moaned, trembling. Wrists sore, body shaking under the weight of him.

Gerard growled, pulling your hair softly. The headboard hit the wall nonstop and you didn’t care who could hear.

When he came, it was desperate, claiming you in every way possible, you felt the warmth spilling inside of you. The gold wedding band on his left hand flashed once more, just as a reminder to come down from your orgasm high.

He lay next to you, tangled in your bedsheets, covered sweat and guilt. He pressed kisses to your wrists where the laces had left red marks.

The room was still sticky, he kept on whispering things against your hair you could barely hear, when the sharp buzz of his phone cut through the silence. You barely registered it until he cursed under his breath.

“Shit. It must be Lindsey.”

He pushed himself up, naked and disheveled, hair sticking to his forehead so the sweat still. You watched as he fumbled for his phone on his jeans pocket, thumb hovering just a second too long before answering. His voice softened instantly.

“Hey… yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

The lie rolled so easily off his tongue you almost believed it yourself. He stood with his back to you, the pale glow of dawn leaking through your closed curtains.

“No, I just… lost track of time at work. We were tossing scenes around, and yeah, it went later than expected. I didn’t even realize it was morning already.”

His hand ran through his hair. You couldn’t see his face, you couldn’t hear what his wife was saying in the other side of the line. His shoulders were bowing slightly.

“Of course I miss you. Kiss her good morning for me, okay? Tell her daddy will be home soon.” His voice cracked there, but he smoothed it fast.

His daughter… His poor daughter.

When he hung up, he didn’t turn right away to face you. Just stared down at the phone like it was some kind of tether to the life he had abandoned for a few hours, the life you weren’t supposed to touch.

You pulled the sheets higher, covering the marks he’d left like evidence on your skin. A lump swelled in your throat. You wanted him to look at you, to say something, anything.

Instead, he started fidgeting with his wedding ring and only then did he meet your eyes.

And in that look you knew it all, he didn’t

mean any of it. But he still did it.

“I promise you…” Gerard spoke softly.

“Yeah” you interrupted him.

[afraidoflittleauldme]

Would you be willing to write a gerard x male reader sometime?????? 🙏🙏

I might be willing, yeah! I have never written any x male or x amab, but I wouldn’t mind trying one day :)

[afraidoflittleauldme]

“I Want to Feel You from the Inside”

Gerard Way x fem!Reader

Warning: needles, nsfw, smut, oral sex (Gerard receiving)

Word count: 1.7k

Masterlist

Frank Iero was shirtless and twitchy under my touch, on my tattoo bed again. I was fueled with sugar-free Red Bull and weed, finishing the shading of a pissed-off traditional-style little devil tattoo on his ribs. Just one of those “This tattoo has no meaning, but I really want it.”

“You’re heavy-handed as fuck” Frank muttered. Not his first complaint that night.

“Shut up.” I laughed. “I remind you that I am still holding a needle and stabbing you with it as we speak. You might want to be nice to me.”

From the corner of my tattoo studio, I heard Gerard snort. He was sunken into my favorite green velvet chair, chewing on the plastic straw from a soda he hadn’t drunk from in the last 20 minutes.

Gerard had been doing that for years, just drifting into my tattoo shop every time Frank got work done. He usually claimed he was just bored and that hearing Frank suffer at my mercy was fun.

Gerard went to school with me, actually. We never really interacted. He was the furthest thing from a popular kid, but no one ever bullied him either. Everyone just ignored him—including me.

I met Frank Iero at our local tattoo convention some years ago. He complimented my tattoos, and I shamelessly introduced myself by giving him a business card and offering him a discount to finish his left arm’s sleeve.

Turns out Belleville is a small world. Gerard was Frank’s bandmate. We stayed orbiting acquaintances since then. I would hang out with the band every time they were in town.

Gerard was flipping through a dusty art book I’d left on the coffee table, as if he didn’t know every piece by heart. He always went through it, every time pointing out a different piece, saying that was his new favorite and that he might get it done one day. Gerard was never going to get a tattoo. He was too scared to even look at the fresh needles coming out of the packaging.

When the coil tattoo machine finally whirred to a stop, Frank sat up and yawned, as if he hadn’t whined the whole time.

“You’re coming to our hotel after, right?” he said, holding his shirt on with one hand and staring at his bare chest in the mirror, scanning the new tattoo. “It’s like a ten-minute walk from here. Low effort.”

Gerard didn’t say a word, but he looked at me, waiting for an answer.

“I’ll pop by” I said, spraying the surface of the tattoo bed and wiping it clean. “Just need to close the shop.”

“When are you going to lose your tattoo virginity?” Frank asked Gerard, who was now staring at an old flash sheet I had on the wall.

“When he understands what commitment means” I joked.

“Anyways,” said Frank, pulling his shirt on over the bandaged fresh ink, “I’m going now, and I’ll leave a Yelp review that ends your career.”

Gerard didn’t go with him. He lingered, staring at the drawings on the wall in silence, entranced and still.

“I’m closing the shop now, Gerard” I announced, standing near the door. “Do you want a smoke?” I held out a Marlboro Gold in his direction.

“Only if you light me up first” he said casually, in that flirty tone he sometimes used with me.

I rolled my eyes, leaving the door open for him to walk out before I locked it behind us.

“You’re single now” he stated. Not a question.

“Did Frank tell you that?”

“No. You just seem happier.”

“Ouch.” That actually stung… still, I nodded. “Yeah. Three months single now.”

“You know” he said, walking the dark streets next to me like we had all the time in the world, “I never understood what you saw in him.”

“I honestly never understood what he saw in me” I admitted.

I was looking down at my bitten-up nails, chipped polish and flecks of black ink in my cuticles.

“You were polar opposites.” He smiled. His hazel eyes looked darker under the streetlights. “He was so… normal. Gym membership. Football fan. Not one tattoo. Never read a single graphic novel in his life.”

“He was actually very into hentai mangas” I joked, making Gerard laugh out loud. I really liked his laugh. It was a good one, contagious like a disease.

We arrived at the afterparty. It was at some beige business-travel hotel, the kind with no personality and too many ice machines that no one ever touched. They were probably moldy and hiding dead rats. I showed up in my usual: black mini skirt, black T-shirt, platform boots, half-smeared lipstick, tired eyes and annoying confidence.

People I half-knew from hanging out with the band were there, all crowded around the kitchenette, sitting on the carpeted floor.

The stench of liquor was too strong for such a small space. I stood near the minibar, singing along to the Nine Inch Nails song playing.

Gerard passed me a clear plastic cup (definitely one from the bathroom). I sniffed the contents. Vodka.

“I don’t drink this.” I smirked, handing it back.

“You do tonight.” He smiled.

Things didn’t escalate fast. At least not at first.

Just one or two glances in silence. Maybe it was the song playing.

“I want to fuck you like an animal. I want to feel you from the inside.” I sang along to the chorus.

“You know…” I said, looking at him, “I thought rock and roll parties were supposed to be filled with cocaine and strippers. This is kind of bland.”

He brushed his fingers along my wrist when he took the untouched cup back. He leaned into my ear as the room got louder.

“Want to get some fresh air?” he asked.

Five minutes later, the door of his hotel room slammed behind us. We were a floor above the party.

He kissed me like he’d done it before, probably in his dreams… or maybe in my own dreams. Not too soft, not too experimental. Like a choice he had been putting off for years.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, pulling my jean jacket off. “I’ll stop if you just ask me to.”

So I didn’t.

He kissed me harder, pushed me toward the bed, hands in my hair, mouth trailing down my jaw.

“You think you’re so tough, huh?” he muttered, backing off to pull off his skinny jeans. “Always in control. All those buff gym bros lining up just to get talked down to.”

I smirked. I always knew he was jealous of the guys I dated. Even back in high school, when we barely ever interacted.

“You’re just jealous.”

“Not really” he said, dragging his fingers up my thigh, lifting my skirt. “You’re in my room now. Not theirs.”

“Get on your knees.”

“Make me.”

And he did. He grabbed me by the hair, pulling me off the bed and onto the carpeted floor. The rug was already making my bare skin itch.

He pulled down his underwear slowly, giving me time to ask him to stop. I didn’t. I didn’t even pretend to hesitate.

His cock was hard, flushed and aching.

“Fuck,” Gerard whispered, eyes fluttering. “You look so beautiful like this.”

I wrapped my hand around him, stimulating him while I was licking his head slow just to tease. I hummed around him, letting him sink deeper into my throat.

He tangled his fingers in my hair, holding it tight, guiding me as he fucked my mouth. Not thrusting, but owning my face.

“I bet you touched yourself more than once imagining me like this, right?” I stopped just to tease him.

“Look at you…” he grunted. “Always pretending to be better than everyone. Smarter. Untouchable. What would everyone think of you now if they saw you? Having that pretty little mouth violated.”

I gagged as he fucked my throat deeper, pulling my hair harder. He groaned again.

“You love having your face fucked, don’t you?” He pushed my head against him, making it harder to breathe. “Maybe that’s why all those guys go crazy over you. Who wouldn’t want such beautiful lips to use like this?”

I moaned around him, spit dripping down my chin. He pulled out before he came. I knew he was close. I could feel the twitch of his cock, his heartbeat in the way he moaned.

He pulled me up before he could even finish, flipped me onto his lap, lifted my mini skirt, and pushed my panties aside. He made me ride him at the edge of the bed. Slow, filthy, teeth in my shoulder and fingers bruising my waist.

“I guess I don’t need coke or strippers” I joked with a moan, moving faster.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he said, one hand moving to my throat, choking me gently.

“Tell me, Gee.” I smiled, voice cracked.

“You were in sophomore year. You had pink streaks in your hair.” He spanked my clothed ass, over my mini skirt.

Gerard groaned, guttural and raw. He fucked me like he wanted to erase every guy who came inside me before him. Hair in fists, bruises on my hips, calling me a good girl every time I obeyed.

I came hard, legs shaking, tears in my eyes and yet he didn’t stop. He made me ride him again, slower this time, one hand on my throat, whispering how beautiful I looked.

He came as his mouth was sucking my collarbone. I felt his teeth against my skin. He gasped my name as he finished.

We lay tangled, sweat-soaked. His cheek rested on my now naked tattooed chest. The heat was too much for clothes. His fingers traced my stomach tattoos.

“You still don’t want a tattoo?” I teased, already knowing the answer.

“Not yet” he said.

“Yet?” I raised an eyebrow.

“I still need to figure out the best spot to get your name tattooed” he laughed.

“I hope you die.” I laughed back, pulling him in for another kiss.

[afraidoflittleauldme]

hi i just started acceptable in the 00s and hooooly shit i fucking love it. insane how immersive it is. had me wanting to do coke in a bathroom for a hot sec. genuinely WAYY too good.

HELLO? Thank you so much! I actually love that fanfic so much. I enjoyed writing it so much so I’m so glad to hear that it’s getting some love over here.

As a retired certified 365 party girl, I cannot encourage NOR discourage that. But I’m glad that you found it very immersive; that’s actually such a massive compliment to my writing.

Love seeing you around here and absolutely adore your username. (Michael Romance never ceases to impress me)

[afraidoflittleauldme]

HIII i really love how you wrote basement gerard—i dont usually request stuff but uh i think i might die if i dont ask you for a basement gerard x reader who's always around the house when mikey comes visit because theyre mikey's best friend and like shes not AWFUL to Gerard, so he ends up kinda crushing on her. god i suck at requesting im SO sorry but i feel like it could play into gerard being a bit of a creepy older brother who lingers and kinda tries flirting in his own very fucking subtle and lame way and it SOMEHOW progresses into smut i have no fucking clue. god i suck at this request shit. if you cant do anything about this its cool i just realized how lame the prompt is xoxo love you twin

“Spit on a Stranger”

basement!Gerard x fem!Reader

Warning: nsfw, cheating, smut, oral sex (Gerard receiving), drug use, dubious con, Gerard is a bit pervy and weird but that’s okay, SA allegations.

Word count: 1.6k

Author’s note: I actually kinda recycled a writing I already haaaad, but I changed and added stuff to match your request! Oh my god I enjoyed writing this one sooo much. I hope you’ll like it hehe.

Masterlist

I’d known Mikey Way since freshman year of high school. We bonded over the fact that both of us hated gym class and spent lunch hours swapping burned CDs. He also found my love and talent for drawing fascinating, constantly bringing up his older brother’s artistic aptitude. Mikey loved his older brother. Gerard was a senior, reserved and quiet. I barely ever saw him around in school.

Mikey was the kind of friend you couldn’t shake. He was always down to stay up until 3 a.m. talking about things nobody else cared about. People in school started speculating if we were dating. We never really cared about that.

It honestly could’ve been worse. It could’ve been the case that people were speculating I was dating Gerard. I never had a negative experience with him, but I heard the older girls in school gossiping about him more than once. The worst rumor? He apparently tried to force himself on one of them while drunk at a party. I heard different versions of it: most of them sounded like jokes, others were just cruel. I could never bring myself to repeat any of those words back to Mikey. They turned out to be lies. However, they could still all agree that Gerard Way was weird.

I spent more time at the Way house than at my own. Their living room couch had practically molded to my shape from how many afternoons I spent there. Donna started calling me her “lost daughter.” She sometimes even said she saw me more often than she saw Gerard. He spent most of his time locked downstairs in his basement bedroom.

Other times, Gerard just… lingered. That was the best word for it. Linger. Lingered on the stairs when Mikey and I were watching movies. Lingered in the kitchen doorway, mumbling about some obscure comic while I helped Mikey grab snacks. Lingered in general, lingered through life, even though it was clear Mikey wasn’t exactly inviting him to hang out with us.

It wasn’t that I disliked Gerard. He was older, a little awkward, clearly battling some stuff. He asked me about my art, remembered which bands I liked, sometimes made me laugh with his dry one-liners before disappearing for the rest of the afternoon. That was more than I could say for most people’s older brothers.

He watched me, too. Not always directly, he wasn’t that bold and confident, but I could feel his gaze flicking over, hanging low when I bent forward to pick up a root beer or sticking to my bare arms when it was hot outside.

Sometimes he’d stand too close, leaning just a little too far into my personal space under the excuse of looking at my sketchbook. He’d touch my pen, my lighter, my sleeve… things he had no reason to touch, just to leave his hand there a second too long.

If this was his version of flirting, it wasn’t subtle or cute. Sometimes he’d randomly lie and say, “That’s a cool shirt, I used to have one kinda like it,” or “You draw like that guy who used to illustrate Sandman, uh, what’s his name…” Then he’d smirk like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Once, while I was sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, he plopped down beside me, close enough that our knees brushed. He leaned over and said, “You know, Mikey’s lucky you hang out with him all the time. If you were my best friend, I wouldn’t let you leave.” I laughed it off, but the way his eyes dragged over me didn’t feel like a joke.

So yeah… Gerard lingered. And maybe I let him.

Then, he went to college, some fancy art school in New York. I saw him less and less. Mikey told me he was actually doing pretty well and had become more outgoing. He even got a girlfriend. Maybe he just needed a new environment to thrive.

Mikey and I stuck together even through our first years of college. By fall of 2000, I had dropped out of my second year to take an apprenticeship at a tattoo parlour back home. Gerard had actually helped me put together my portfolio. Mikey was still my anchor and still the reason I was in that orbit.

That night was Mikey’s birthday, which is how we all ended up in some random Jersey basement that smelled like dog piss and half-drunk energy drinks. Walls tagged in graffiti, air heavy with rust and cigarette smoke.

A thrash metal band no one cared about, screamed into the void while people ignored them. Mikey drifted off across the crowd with some of his new college friends. I leaned against the sticky wall, and of course Gerard was right there by the massive speaker with me. Smudged eyeliner, greasy black hair tied back with a rubber band that didn’t do its job, bruised lips curled into that half-smile.

He had introduced me to his friends earlier that evening, Ray and Frank. Ray pulled a baggie from his back pocket. Frank shook his head immediately. Gerard handed me one of the little pills from the plastic bag and suddenly it was him and me again. Just like it always ended up, no matter how the night started.

We slotted the tiny pills under our tongues and swallowed, thick and stupid, waiting forever for the room to shift. Gerard started laughing so hard he almost choked on his energy drink.

The sharp ends of the music began to soften. My hands felt heavier and the shadows stretched around us.

We crawled out of that basement together. The night felt too bright after all that darkness. The early autumn air was still sticky. We slipped into my beat-up Honda Civic. Gerard took the driver’s seat. The seats were torn. The air freshener had been dead for months. I closed the door behind me and apologized for the mess. It was mostly sketch pads, dry Sharpies and empty cans of Diet Coke.

My back dented against the door and I reached out to play a Pavement CD. The same CD I’d had on repeat for a month and a half. Great fucking album.

Gerard tapped his fingers to the opening bass line of “Spit on a Stranger,” the first song on the album. He untied his greasy black hair. I felt like I had a fever. I was gross and sweaty, and so was he.

“That was an intense gig,” he said, voice filling the narrow space between us.

“Happy birthday to Mikey fucking Way,” I said, pulling a cigarette and lighter from Gerard’s shirt pocket.

We just smoked in the car, sang along with the lyrics of that grunge album, and talked about comics. He asked about my tattoo apprenticeship. I asked about his new Cartoon Network internship, Mikey had told me about recently.

He started tracing his fingertips over the few tattoos on my arms. I casually said I couldn’t wait to be fully covered.

Gerard was higher than I was, I could tell. His pupils were blown, his hand dragging slowly over my skin, lingering like he wanted to memorize every inch. He kept saying he could feel the texture of the ink taking over him.

I felt the stupid urge to blow him right then and there, in my dirty, beat-up Honda Civic. My shaky hands reached for his jeans, laughing.

“Can I?” I asked, voice thin as air, looking at him.

He froze. His breathing deepened. I could tell it wasn’t just his breath getting heavier. I could feel him growing under the denim at my touch. His hand hovered halfway to his fly.

Then his voice went soft and rough. “I can’t… I have a girlfriend.”

Oh. Shit. Right.

“Fuck it,” he exhaled, lifting himself a bit off the seat and sliding down his tight dark jeans.

I kept wondering… If I hadn’t taken that pill, if I was sober tonight, would I still be doing this? Would I still be eyeing my best friend’s brother’s cock over his boxers?

I didn’t even have time to dwell. Gerard’s hand yanked me by the hair, his dick springing out of his underwear and without even letting me brace myself, he shoved it deep into my mouth.

His hand did the heavy work, bobbing my head up and down for me. Drool dripping on both sides of my mouth. My tongue messed around with his length, trying to linger on his tip. I hollowed my cheeks with each thrust. It was less of a blowjob and more of Gerard fucking my mouth.

He was moving my head too fast. He wasn’t actually fucking my throat, so every time I tried to take him deeper, his moaning intensified.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for years now,” he confessed. I knew he never intended to actually do it when I wasn’t of age, he wasn’t weird like that. But he was definitely weird enough to cheat on his girlfriend with his younger brother’s best friend.

I tried bobbing my head slower but deeper, forcing him to hit the back of my throat, sinking him down again and again just to hear him moaning my name. He didn’t last long after that.

I could barely taste the saltiness of his cum as he finished down my throat, only a couple drops actually hit my taste buds. Still, I swallowed it all.

The car cracked as the album looped back to the beginning. We sat still. The engine was still running.

“We can act like that never happened,” he said.

“Sure,” I nodded with fake enthusiasm. My throat locked as I composed myself.

“You good?” he asked.

“Totally,” I said, gripping the edge of the door, ready to escape my own car as the guilt hit me and the drugs wore off.

[afraidoflittleauldme]

pool boy at the vampire mansion has truly become my favorite gerard fic of all time/srs i can’t believe how little people have read it!! truly you write so beautifully and eloquently! it makes me feel nostalgic in a way. i can’t wait for the next chapter! please do take your time though 🩷 it’s literally perfect for the upcoming fall time ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و keep up the amazing work!!! have a beautiful day🩷

Ah this is the sweetest message I could’ve received! Thanks a million you kind soul.

I used to write fanfics over 15 years ago. I believe I still vary that old-school ff writer vibe. Nostalgia might be my favourite compliment.

I will definitely take my time with the next chapter, I wasn’t sure if I was going to write another part or not. But the love it’s received by the few people that have read it it’s so inspiring.

I am smiling and giggling at this sweet message.

You also have a lovely day 🖤

[afraidoflittleauldme]

“I’ll Love You Till the Grass Around my Gravestone is Deceased”

Gerard Way x Reader

Warning: NSFW, smut, implied self harm and eating disorders, bdsm, light bondage, mention of suicide, angst.

Status: Completed.

Word count: 4.5k

Summary: A lonely summer abroad leads to a chance encounter with Gerard Way in New York.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Masterlist here.

[afraidoflittleauldme]

“I’ll Love You Till the Grass Around my Gravestone is Deceased”

2016!Gerard x fem!Reader

Warning: NSFW, depression and mention of antidepressants, smut, implied eating disorder, light bondage.

Part: 3/3

Word count: 1.8k

Masterlist

London, 2016.

The crispy air leaking into my lungs felt so sharp. Why am I the same old sad girl I was ten years ago? Now just on antidepressants to dull the sharp edges. I guess I also got a good job and bought a flat, but I could still taste the loneliness as a second breakfast.

It’s a rainy Wednesday evening, and I’m on the couch with my journal, scribbling about my stupid day. My phone buzzed.

A simple text message:

“In London for the week. Dinner? Gee x”

I felt my throat contract. I haven’t typed his name in years. I almost deleted it once, but I didn’t. Now here I was, typing and replying as fast as I could.

“Sure. Pub?”

His reply was almost instant:

“The Crown and Anchor. Thursday at 8?”

⸻

I stepped inside, all nerves for some reason. The interior smelled like fresh wood varnish. He was already there. His hair a bit longer, he’d put on a bit of weight, his features softer with a mixture of exhaustion. He looked barely any older.

“Hi,” he smiled, with that familiar voice.

“Hello,” I whispered, with clumsy adrenaline.

We ordered pints and some chicken wings to share. We small-talked. He mentioned he got married and being a dad now—my heart and stomach sank. Then he mentioned a divorce, which made me feel like the biggest piece of crap because I smiled to myself after hearing that. He told me about a comic he’d been working on that recently got picked up by Netflix for a show.

I felt stunned—he passed through storms, built something, lost something. And me? I just scribbled in my diary, got a job as a personal assistant to some asshole sexist executive in a financial firm in central London, and take pills to function…

“How do you feel?” His question caught me off guard.

“Sometimes I still feel chronically and terminally unlovable.”

He nodded, with his sympathetic, kind hazel eyes.

“Let’s go back to yours,” he said.

⸻

I unlocked the door as fast as I could. My flat smelled like lavender air freshener. My holistic, estranged mother once told me that lavender helps with anxiety and depression, but it honestly wasn’t doing much for me. I guess there’s only so much essential oils can do for chronic mental health problems. My Ikea bookshelves were filled with novels I hadn’t even read. A journal was left open on the kitchen table, full of scribbles and shaky cursive letter lists.

He observed everything around him. I suddenly felt like the same girl he once orchestrated rituals of ruin with. His hand reached out to my jaw, pulling me in for a kiss.

This time, he kissed first. We’d never done that before: kissing before fucking. The kisses were usually an afterthought when we were young. Our mouths were usually busy with other things. His mouth tasted like ale and whiskey. This time I wasn’t falling to my knees in front of him. He was soft, yet still dominant somehow.

“Do you still want to be used?” he chuckled.

“By you?” I blurted out with a moan. “I waited almost ten years.”

We moved into my bedroom, tangled. My dress was taken off somewhere in the equation and he was now working on my bra. My body was shivering with anxiety and he was just moving with such slow care. He started gentle, kissing the curve of my hip, tracing over old scars on my thighs.

He tied my wrists to the headboard using an old silk scarf I’d kept from a charity shop near Camden. Still into bondage, I see…

I arched into him, thighs aching.

He fucked me slow at first, second-guessing if this was actually happening, definitely less fierce than that first night we shared over ten years ago.

He kept thrusting harder, picking up the pace against me. His soft-tone voice was praising me this time. He kept calling me beautiful, telling me how I’d always be his.

I started sobbing joy and grief into my pillow. He began to slow down, kissing me again and again. I just bit his lip and heard him laughing.

He fucked me slow and almost tender, then firm—firm, and then tough again. I felt every nerve in my body reopening. It was like he rewired the broken circuit.

I finished then and there, sobbing. I didn’t even know why, but I was begging him to forgive me.

He collapsed next to me minutes later, tangled hair and damp skin.

I bubbled out, “Why me?”

“Because you’re still gorgeous,” he said, almost flirting. “And because you kept yourself alive. And because I needed to remember you.”

We drifted away from pain into comfort, and he kissed my forehead.

He got up from the bed, starting to dress. I slid out of the makeshift bondage with the silk scarf. I felt somehow fuller and emptier at the same damn time.

He grabbed the scarf, folded it and left it on the bed next to me, while I lay there, lifeless. He kissed the corner of my mouth.

“We can do this whenever I’m in the UK. Or whenever you’re visiting America.”

I nodded, crying in silence.

He walked out of my bedroom. I curled into the big empty spot he left next to me. The bed went cold in patches. And after a couple of seconds, I snapped out of it, jumping out of bed, naked, and running to the entry hallway of my apartment. He was at the door, one hand on the handle.

“Gerard,” I breathed, as he turned to me. “Please don’t go.”

He stayed still.

“I know you’re busy and you’re working on your comic and your show. And I know you have a daughter now, and a life, and I don’t know if you’re seeing anyone new. And you probably think I’m the most pathetic person you’ve ever met, and you probably pity the fact that I just can’t fucking move on,” I choked. “Please stay. For as long as you can. Please.”

“I didn’t want to leave,” he whispered. “I just thought I shouldn’t stay. Not unless you wanted me to.”

“I want you to. Of course I fucking want you to.” I let out a half-sob, half-laugh sound.

I fell into him like gravity. He wrapped his arms around me, and I buried my face in his neck. I smelled sweat and cologne and the sadness that came from deep in my bones.

We didn’t even fuck after that.

We made love for the first time.

At the embarrassing age of thirty-three, I made love for the first time.

That’s the awful part of it.

Back in my bedroom, the sheets were still wrinkled and smelly from the previous round. He placed me in the bed as if I were about to shatter, and proceeded to kiss every inch of my body, every bruise, every fold, every old scar.

His hands were so gentle. This was all so new to me. His lips were moist and slow. He kissed my eyelids, my forehead, the inside of my wrists. Then I noticed him undoing his trousers.

When he entered me, it was unbearable. Too soft, too good, too intense. My body rose to meet his, and he held me there, still, just breathing with me.

I couldn’t help but sob.

And remember what my last ex-boyfriends said to me a couple of years ago, as he was leaving:

“Men love to love sad, broken, pathetic little girls.”

The sobs were quiet, collapsing ones. The kind of sobs you don’t make unless your entire life is flashing behind your eyes. He wiped my tears with the back of his hand, placed his lips on my cheek, and slowly started thrusting into me again.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he murmured.

“You didn’t even know me,” I replied fast.

“We knew each other for a whole year, sugar.”

I wrapped my legs around him, like I was scared he’d be out of my life again. He moved slowly and deeply inside me- not only physically but also figuratively. Aching. Deep. Tender. No dirty talk. No orders. Just the weight of all the real things we never said.

Maybe we were so young and needed too much therapy back then…

It’s too much.

“Can we please make this work?” I whispered, mixing my words with soft moans of deep pleasure.

His forehead was pressing against mine. His hair was barely long enough to fall on my face. I felt his shoulders shake a little. He was crying too. Our tears were mixing on our lips.

“We could try,” he said, picking up the intensity of his thrusts, moving his hand to my hip and placing his thumb over my clit, playing with it.

“I don’t want to be your past,” I moaned.

“Well, you are my present right now.”

He thrust once more, making me squeeze hard around him, reaching both of our orgasms. Like a wave breaking without violence. It was the most boring, yet the best orgasm I’ve ever experienced.

He collapsed next to me. We were both lying still. Almost dead in comfort. A strange post-coital peace took over my bedroom. His fingers traced over my rib cage. I wondered if I had starved myself enough for him to notice that I wasn’t eating again. Those chicken wings we shared at dinner were my first meal of the week.

He hated when I used to do that.

Then he spoke.

“I’ve been trying hard not to say this,” he began. “For almost ten years. Since we were both in New York. Since that summer. Since always.”

I didn’t move. I didn’t even breathe.

I just saw him staring at the ceiling in my bedroom.

“I love you,” he said it first. “Not in a polite way. Not in an I-want-to-buy-you-flowers-and-take-you-out-for-dinner sort of way.”

Pause. Of course he didn’t love me like that. I can’t be loved like that.

“But I know I’ll love you until the grass around my gravestone is deceased.” His voice was barely a whisper now.

He turned to face me, waiting for me to say something.

“I used to scream into pillows almost every night after I moved back to London, so I wouldn’t text you,” I said. “I used to watch interviews of you on YouTube and try to convince myself that I went delusional and it never happened.”

“I got married. I have a beautiful daughter. And still, you were the ghost behind everything I loved. I felt so much guilt looking at my ex-wife, wishing it was you instead. You were like a bug latched to my skin.”

My hand reached for his cheek.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Gerard.”

“I want to live in that little weird and repulsive head of yours. I want to hold your hair when you get sick. I want to bring you tea when you need it. I want to spank you when you ask for it. I want to kiss your forehead before bedtime.”

“I love you like it hurts,” I replied. “And I’ll do it all over again.”

[afraidoflittleauldme]

“I’ll Love You Till the Grass Around my Gravestone is Deceased”

2006!Gerard x fem!reader

Warning: Suicide mention, mention of eating disorder, implication of self harm, angst no comfort.

Part: 2/3

Word count: 850+

Masterlist

New York, 2006.

The wine was too cold. It made my teeth feel sensitive and it hurt them. I couldn’t stop sipping on it.

We were both wearing sunglasses even though the sun was almost fully gone. It was more like a dramatic kind of denial. We were hungover from the night before and had overslept until late in the afternoon.

I curled into the aluminium chair on Gerard’s north-facing balcony. He was sitting in the chair next to me, slightly grown-out bleached white-blond hair, skinny jeans and a faded black cotton t-shirt. He lit another cigarette, and I followed.

The wine was cold and sour. I felt like I was dipping my tongue in battery acid. I liked it anyway.

New York City was humming underneath us. Human static. Cars stuck in traffic. The skyline was bleeding gold and orange. It almost could’ve looked cinematic if we drank more wine and squinted hard enough.

“It’s weird,” he said, blowing the smoke out of his mouth. “This week has been the loudest of my life, but I’ve never felt more quiet and with nothing to say.”

“Because of the album?” I asked.

He nodded. “It’s out, and it’s everywhere. Everyone loves us, and I feel like I’m sixteen and melting again.”

I flicked ash into the empty mug with a faded Hello Kitty face. “You’re allowed to be melting. You’re just now melting in a very public eye.”

He exhaled, laughing. “Cool. Love that for me.”

Silence. It was heavy, but not awkward at all.

I looked at him. The collar of his tee was slightly crooked, and his sunglasses were definitely too big for his face. I wouldn’t be surprised if he bought them on purpose to hide from the crowds now.

“Do you still hate how you look in pictures?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Kinda.”

He shifted. One of his legs was now bouncing—restless and anxious.

“I read in a magazine that apparently I’m hot now,” he said, almost like it was some sort of gossip. “It’s like a fact. And I just feel like I’m renting out this body from someone else.”

“Maybe you just got stuck in the middle of your hotness transformation,” I shrugged. “For the record, I always thought you were hot.”

“Thanks,” he snorted. “That’s deeply affirming.”

We both ashed our cigarettes again. The cars underneath us were honking. The sun finally fully dropped behind the skyline.

“Do you ever feel like your body isn’t yours?” I asked.

“I just said that,” he replied. “But yes, all the time.”

I picked at the wine bottle label. It came off in thin strips. It was so satisfying to peel.

“I spent most of my secondary school years thinking that if I was skinny enough or if I had enough scars on me, the grief would leak out of me like water.”

He didn’t even shrug or ask a single question.

“Did I ever tell you that my dad died when I was thirteen?” I dropped. “He killed himself in our garden shed.”

He took off his sunglasses, his hand reaching out to my knee.

“I found him. He rigged something with a belt and a stepladder. It almost looked fake, like a Halloween prop. His face was…” I stopped. “Anyways… I didn’t scream. I didn’t even call Mum. I just stood there and counted the tools on the wall behind him. Forty-two.”

Gerard’s cigarette burned down to the filter. He stubbed it out without breaking eye contact with me.

“Do you think that’s when you got weird?” he asked me.

“I think that’s when I started craving a father’s attention,” I joked.

He nodded. He didn’t laugh. He wasn’t pitying me either.

“I think that’s when you got weird,” he said after a beat, making me laugh.

“Cool,” I rolled my eyes behind my shades. “You know what? At least you make art out of your weirdness and grief.”

“I’ve told you. You should write books or poems.” He wasn’t lying. He had said that to me multiple times. I guess I’m just too shy for others to read how I’m feeling.

We got quiet again. Cigarettes done. Wine gone. The kind of silence that tastes like metal.

“I think I’m starting to fall in love with you,” I said, way too casually to be casual. “Which means I now have to flee the country and change my name.”

“What’s your fake name going to be?”

“Frank Iero,” I joked.

“Very forgettable.” Gerard laughed with me. He actually laughed. His laugh echoed a little off the rusted balcony rail.

He leant back in his chair, arms crossed, mouth twitching into a soft yet sad smile. “What happens now?”

I stared at him through the fading light. His face looked tired. There was still some wine on his wet lips, cigarette ash on his black skinny jeans.

“I have to go back to London,” I said finally. “We can just pretend this was a nice little episode.”

“A year-long little episode,” he muttered.

He didn’t even try to stop me.

Of course he doesn’t.

That’s what made it hurt much more.

[afraidoflittleauldme]

“I’ll Love You Till the Grass Around my Gravestone is Deceased.”

2005!Gerard x fem!reader

Warning: nsfw, angst, smut, bdsm, light bondage, name calling, vomit, drunk sex, mention of blood.

Part: 1/3

Word count: 1.8k

Masterlist

Summer of 2005, and New York smelled like warm piss and rotten milk spilt on the pavement. I loved it. I wanted every single bit of it inside me. I wished I could unzip my skin and press my bare organs against the red bricks. I wanted this city to fester in me. I wanted it to ferment inside me.

I had only been there for three days and I already felt dehydrated and deranged. I was sleeping in my cousin’s friend’s ex-girlfriend’s sublet. No AC. I was pretty sure I saw a roach in the bathroom. I was leaking hope from my ears.

Summers abroad had always been fun. Even when I carried nothing but twenty dollars and a tampon in my purse; I hadn’t even bled in months.

That night, I wore my sluttiest dress. It wasn’t even a dress. It was quite literally a long shirt. I loved sluts, they always had fun. They didn’t stay home in South London overthinking all summer. I was a big slut fan. I wished I could be like them. I was already sweating my soul out. I looked more like a haunted Bratz doll.

The bar nearby had a silly name, The Snakeskin. It was sticky, red-lit and the stench of beer farts and testosterone was enough to make me go insane. Still, a place like that asked to see my ID.

I showed my age card to the eyebrow-less bartender. I could tell it was his first time seeing a foreign ID, as it took him a while to find the date of birth.

“Age?” he asked, testing me.

“Twenty-three,” I replied. “Can I get a pint of whatever’s the cheapest?”

Then I saw him. Gerard Fucking Way.

Black long hair, pale skin like a wax saint. He looked tired the same way priests looked tired after listening to hundreds of sinners.

He was alone. Drinking something that looked like motor oil. He looked at me like he knew who I fucking was… I definitely knew who he was.

“British?” he interrupted, as the bartender passed me my glass of beer and I handed over a bill to pay for it.

“Unfortunately,” I smiled.

“You’re far away from home.” He smiled back at me. “Sit.”

I obeyed.

We ended up going to his place, as if that was inevitable. A dim two-bedroom apartment in Midtown Manhattan. There were posters curling off the living room walls, and boxes of records and comic books stacked all around. There was a crucifix above his bed, of course there fucking was.

He asked me what I wanted.

“For you to punish me,” I joked.

He didn’t laugh, he just pushed me. “Strip,” he commanded.

I didn’t even know why, but I felt nervous immediately. So I did. I obeyed, just like that. I stripped—not in a sexy-Hollywood sort of way, but in a more pathetic, desperate one. He watched me with the detached hunger of someone who loved to see things fall apart.

When I was down to just my knickers, I tried to take a step further and make eye contact with him. His left hand held my chin, firmly.

“I didn’t tell you you could look at me.” He slapped me. It wasn’t gentle.

My ear rang from the impact. My whole face stung. It was perfect, so I smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Tell me what you are.”

“A disgusting little slut.”

“Yeah, you’re my disgusting little whore.” He exhaled through his nose, as if that was something he’d been waiting to hear all night long. “Bed. Get on your knees.”

I scrambled onto the bed, bare knees on the worn sheets. I could hear him behind me, taking off his belt—slowly but loud. I felt the pulse between my legs. I felt the sin of every single past sin crawling up my insides. He bound my wrists behind my back.

Then, his hand landed on my ass. Heavy.

“Fuck,” I blurted out, gasping, louder than I expected. He hit me again, and again.

“Count,” he said.

I started murmuring while counting in silence. This just couldn’t be happening.

“Slut can’t count?”

“Four! Five!” I started shouting this time, testing his limits with my behaviour.

He kept going until I lost track, until my thighs trembled and threatened to collapse. My breath came out in hiccuped gasps, almost like sobs.

Then I felt his calloused fingers close to my entrance. Wetting themselves in me. He groaned when he realised how wet I was.

“All of this from a little spanking?” he whispered. “Fucking hell.”

He untied my wrists but still held them, pushing me flat to the bed. I felt his cock against me—I was so deep in the moment I hadn’t even noticed when he took off his black skinny jeans. He teased me, sliding his cock along me, but he wouldn’t give it to me. I whined.

“Please,” I pleaded. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Say you want me to ruin you.”

“I want you to ruin me.”

“Say you want me to use you.”

“Please, Gerard,” I begged. “Use me.”

He pressed inside and I almost choked on my own saliva. He was big and slow about it, just to hear me gasp. He pulled my hair and it made me want to cry.

He fucked me like he hated me. Sharp, unforgiving—my body jerked against his mattress with every thrust.

“Dirty little thing,” he whispered so sickeningly sweet. “I bet no one has ever fucked the self-loathing out of you, have they?”

“Look at you, taking it so well,” he kept on talking in my ear. “You need it, don’t you?”

I just whimpered a slight “yes.”

“You love being nothing.”

“I do,” I cried. “I fucking do.” I moaned into his sheets, sobbing smaller “thank you”s and “harder”s. His fingers pressed on my hips, leaving bruises.

I didn’t even know where my shame ended and his dick began.

When he let me come, it wasn’t pretty. It was loud, and wet, and messy, and terrifying. My whole body spasmed. I dug my teeth into his old dirty pillow to stop myself from screaming louder. He kept fucking me through it, relentless.

After he finished, he stayed inside me for a second. Still. His hand remained on the back of my neck, holding it down. My legs shook. My cunt was raw. I felt baptised in sin, staring at the crucifix above me.

When he finally pulled out, the silence was deafening. I just heard his belt hitting the floor after falling from the bed. I swore God was laughing at me.

I curled in on myself, trying to remember how to be human. My body is sweaty, and damp, and swollen, and aching in all the right places. I was still trembling post-orgasm—or should I say post-exorcism. Everything was suddenly too much. The air, the silence, the stench of sex, the sweat, my own thoughts.

I feel like I’ve pissed myself emotionally.

He’s in the bathroom now. I heard the sink running, nothing else. I can also hear my own breathing, like I just survived a car crash. The shame was taking over my body like mould. So clammy.

That’s Gerard Fucking Way. I had a fucking t-shirt with his face on it, and I just sobbed into his mattress like a little girl begging for her father’s attention.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I feel stupid. Slutty-stupid. Stupid-slutty. My thighs were still wet with the proof and I just wanted to be scrubbed off planet Earth.

By the time he came back into the bedroom, I had pulled the thin bedsheet, covered in sweat, all over my face. Like a resting corpse. A parody of vulnerability.

I felt him sitting on the edge of the bed. I knew he was looking at me. He was probably disturbed already.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

That question made me want to vomit. I just shrugged under the covers, which in girl-language means “absolutely fucking not.”

“I shouldn’t have…” I started, but the words broke apart in my throat.

He just lay down next to me. Still not touching me nor saying anything. Just existing.

“I liked it,” I say eventually.

“I know,” he said, pulling the sheet away from my face. He finally touched me—his hand was over my shoulder. “I don’t think you’re disgusting, by the way.”

“But I do.”

He half laughed at my comment.

I just closed my eyes, letting the warmth of his palm penetrate my shoulder, deep into my bones.

Maybe I will hate myself even more in the morning. Maybe I will vanish after this and never come back around this part of the city. But for now, for one small night in the rotting heart of Manhattan, I let myself be held. I stayed.

We both fell asleep in separate corners of his bed. The AC was broken. I dreamt about blood in the River Hudson. I woke up sweating. My stomach turned. I’d forgotten I was drinking heavily before coming to Gerard’s place. The world felt gelatinous. My head wouldn’t stop spinning.

I stumbled to his bathroom, vomiting so hard I saw stars. It’s not chic at all. It’s just chunks of my own guilt with stomach acid and something pink I don’t even remember eating—ah yes, a street hotdog! My mouth tasted foul. My hands were shaking.

I rinsed my mouth in his sink, then I sat on the cold tile in my underwear, back pressed to the bathtub, listening to my own heartbeat rushing.

“This is where I belong,” I thought to myself. My punishment pew. I pressed my cheek to the cold floor.

Footsteps and the door creaking interrupted my moment. I didn’t even lift my head.

“Are you okay?” he asked again.

“You keep on asking that like my answer’s going to change,” I replied.

Gerard was wearing a Deftones t-shirt and his underwear. He knelt beside me, just watching me.

“I barfed,” I said, voice raw.

“I know. I heard you, you poor thing.”

I know he’s seen many girls like me before. Sad slut-wannabes with soft cores.

He brushed my hair off my damp forehead. His fingers felt cooler than the tiled floor.

“I’ve done worse,” he said.

He sat back, resting against the bathtub next to me.

“I look disgusting,” I murmured.

“You look beautiful.”

“Liar.”

“Well, I’m hard,” he said plainly, voice low. “Does that sound like I’m lying?”

He held me for the first time. He wasn’t lying. He was, indeed, hard. And I was too sad to be horny. But he kissed me, for the very first time.

It wasn’t romantic or gentle. It was more desperate than anything. We were gnashing our mouths together. He tasted like mouthwash, and I probably tasted like vomit. I moaned against his mouth; he groaned back at me.

“I don’t,” I said, pulling away from him for a second. “I don’t really want to have sex.”

“That’s okay,” he nodded, pulling his underwear back up.

I pressed my forehead against his. I closed my eyes. I felt his breath on my lips.

Maybe a stranger kneeling next to you and your vomit was more than enough.

[afraidoflittleauldme]

“Do You Still Cry When You’re Touched?”

sub!basement!Gerard x dom!fem reader

Warning: NSFW, smut, riding, implied use of substances, dacryphilia.

Status: Completed.

Word count: 1.1k

Summary: Gerard reunites with the woman who once broke his heart after a brief, cruel teenage fling. For good old times’ sake.

Masterlist

I dated Gerard Way once. Briefly.

We were both fifteen years old. For, like, a month. Or maybe two…

It was a dare, really.

He had a crush on me. It was weirdly obvious and gross. I knew it. Everyone knew it.

One night at Maria’s house, filled with vodka in Gatorade bottles and those fruity cheap lip glosses that glistened like oil slicks and were popular in the 90’s, someone said:

“You should go out with him. You know, for shits and giggles.”

And I did. Because I was already leaving town. Dad got promoted and we were moving two states away and nothing was real at fifteen anyways.

I kissed him in the bathroom of someone’s sweet sixteen, in my little pleated skirt. I told him he was sweet.

He was surprisingly rebellious for a nerdy Jersey crybaby boy.

He also cried when I broke up with him.

I didn’t.

I was mean about it. I told people I broke up with him because he smelled. I told people I did it as a joke. I actually liked him too.

Donna, his mother, called mine that same evening to complain about the way I treated her son. I deserved it.

Almost ten years later, I’m back.

Back in Jersey, back in my parents’ old house, back in a body I’ve outgrown ten times.

Gerard called me. Gerard called me.

“Hey.” That was all he said. Like we’re still fifteen and I was still that girl with the tiny black dress and the razor tongue.

“I heard you were back in town.” He continued. “Do you want to come over?”

He lived in his parents basement now.

Same house. Different orbit.

His younger brother moved out for college, and Gerard was down there like vampire dwelling in the dark.

There was a mattress on the floor, no bed frame, and piles of notebooks stacked around.

He smelled like cigarettes and sweat.

But his eyes were still sweet and kind. I felt bad for him.

“You look—” I started, then stop.

Because he did. He looked fucking wrecked.

Cheekbones sharp from hunger, he lost a ridiculous amount of weight it couldn’t be healthy… Hair dirty and greasy, tubs of prescription pills and half drank liquor bottles around the floor.

“I’m working on an album,” he mumbled. “It’s… it’s stupid. I don’t know.”

He sat down on the mattress.

I walked around the room. I touched everything. I always did that when I’m uncomfortable, paw through other people’s lives like a raccoon in the middle of the night.

Some sketchbooks were open. Lyrics everywhere. Scratched out lines. Scribbled hearts. Bloodstains, maybe. Or ink. Same difference.

And then I read it. That one.

“I’m trying to let you know just how much you mean to me.”

“And I feel like there’s nothing left to do but prove myself to you.”

I snorted. “Aw. Who’s she? You got a weird little girlfriend?”

I didn’t expect him to answer, but he did.

“You,” he said. One syllable. Landed like a fucking bomb.

I froze.

He wouldn’t look at me, he was sitting there picking at a loose string on his sleeve.

“You wrote a love song about me?” I laughed, high-pitched and involuntary. “From when we were fifteen?”

He shrugged, miserable. “I never got over it I guess.”

My heart turned inside out.

It was like licking a knife and liking the taste.

“Gerard,” I whispered, softer this time.

And I wanted to say something nice. I really did. But I’m not a nice girl. I never have been.

Instead, I crawled onto his lap and pinned him down.

“You still cry when you’re touched?” I asked, mouth to his jaw, teeth grazing his pulse.

He nodded.

“Good,” I said and straddle his hips.

His hands were shaking. His lips part, barely breathing.

I pressed my palm to his chest and felt the erratic thud of his pathetic little heart.

“You gonna beg me this time?”

“Please,” he whispered.

“Louder.”

“Please.” he mumbled.

“I said louder-“

“Please…” he sobbed “My parents are upstairs… please don’t make me do this.”

“Good” I laughed “At least they’ll know their twenty five year old son is not a pathetic virgin.”

I grabbed his wrists, pinned them over his head. I kissed him. Too much teeth.

“Bet you touched yourself thinking about me,” I whispered into his mouth.

He moaned. I felt his moan in my cunt.

“You did, didn’t you?” I laughed. “You still disgust me.”

He nodded. Again. Again.

I grinder down onto his cock, still clothed, watching him twitch underneath me.

He liked to be tortured like this. We never actually fucked when we were teenagers. I’d just tease him like this. Fully clothed, until he came in his pants and blushed about it.

“You want to cry for me, baby?” I asked, hands trailed down to undo his jeans.

“Yes.”

I pulled his dick out. Spat on my hand. Stroke him once, twice… slow and cruel. I made him get rid of my own jeans and panties, letting him touch the wetness around my sex. It was the first time he touched me.

And then I fucked him. He whimpered the entire time. Tears down his soft pale cheeks. I rode him harder. I had to admit I was scared of hurting him at first.

“You wrote a fucking love song about me,” I growled, tightening my grip around his throat. “That’s the saddest shit I’ve ever heard.”

“I loved you,” he gasps, breaking. Past tense… ouch.

“I know,” I said, hitting my hips harder against his.

I did it until he sobbed, until he begged.

Until he came with my name in his mouth like a rosary.

I didn’t even come. I enjoyed his tears and begs. I enjoyed fulfilling his little fantasy of who he thought I was.

I roll off of him. I was sweaty, smudged and proud.

He curled into me like a dog with nowhere to go. His face was wet, hair dripping in sweat and oil. His eyes were still glassy. His chest was shaking. Poor thing.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he said, as if I didn’t know that already.

“Of course you didn’t,” I smiled. I didn’t mean it in the wrong way, I felt for him.

I stared at the ceiling and for a minute… just a minute, I thought I wanted to stay.

Maybe because I liked being loved by something that never healed right.

Maybe I liked the version of me he never stopped believing in.

Or maybe I liked him secretly.

“Gerard” I spoke, as he turned to me, awaiting for my next words “Can you kiss me again?”

He held my cheeks almost immediately, this time the kiss was slow, tender. I noticed how soft his lips really were. He was a good man.

“You know… I am sorry.” I let out, holding him back.

[afraidoflittleauldme]

the pool boy at the vampire mansion fic has done something to me that can never be changed, thank you for such masterpiece!

(i looooooveeee your username btw!!)

🦇🦇

Ah here thank you so much for such a lovely message! I loveeeee writing that fic, and I have no shame to admit that I re-read it sometimes and think to me self “ah this is brilliant! well done me”

(And thanks as well! I was burning my brain cells trying to think of a good one. I am secretly a massive swiftie as well so.)

[afraidoflittleauldme]

“Pool Boy at the Vampire Mansion”

sub!basement!Gerard x dom!vampire!fem reader

Warning: Smut, nsfw, male masturbation, oral sex (female receiving), dom/sub, vampire feeding and blood mentioned.

Part: 4/?

Word count: 2.4k

Author’s note: This was actually how I was planning on ending this fic. I just love a good unfinished ending and leaving the rest to the reader, what do you guys think? I could potentially write one or two more parts, but I’m out of ideas. It was meant to be a one shot originally and I extended it to four parts lol. Also, how do we feel about second person pov— I am more of a first person type of girl. What do yous prefer?

Masterlist

Gerard thought the mansion felt even emptier without you. Weeks had stretched into a whole month. Winter had come and was almost gone, and Gerard had kept moving through the rooms, through the gardens, through the echoing marble halls, trying to convince himself that your absence was merely temporary. The last time he had seen you was the morning after your mother’s party.

He had tried to distract himself, clearing the pool of fallen leaves, adjusting lights and garden parasols, dusting the stone corners of the terrace but each task was mechanical and also really useless. His mind was elsewhere, orbiting you and your absence, your peculiar scent, the warmth of your hand and your magnetic gaze.

He thought he might be losing himself to the memory of you. Each motion, each breath, each whisper of the wind through the trees reminded him of what he could not touch or see. While fishing the last leaves from the pool, he heard the quietest conversation from across the garden.

“Sure, she’s only gone with her aunt Nadja,” your mother’s voice said. Gerard felt the words in his chest; he wanted to know where you had gone.

The sound of a liquid being poured into a china teacup accompanied the voices. The liquid was thicker than tea, more sour than coffee. Your mother called it her Midnight Tea Club. Her special: warm blood with cloves and anise stars.

“I know,” another female voice replied with a nasal tone and a Southern accent. “Leaving the pool boy like that? Have you seen the poor tortured soul tonight? He looks dreadful”

“We plan on telling him she was on a leisure trip in the Swiss Alps” your mother’s voice came back. “Her father wanted to be cruel and tell him she had met someone of her caliber and married off in the Old country.”

“That she met another undead brat with dirty money?” A third female voice chimed in. The laughter came after that.

Gerard froze, hands clutching the rake until his knuckles ached. Relief and dread twisted together in his chest. At least there was not another man.

“She confessed to us that she had fantasied about it,” your mother continued. “About drinking the poor boy whole. She didn’t want to risk it. Aunt Nadja fell in love with a mortal boy once, she insisted my daughter needed to see a therapist in the old country. It’s precautionary. Necessary.”

The cold air felt sharp in Gerard’s lungs. Weeks of panic and uncertainty crashed against him, a wave of longing and fear. He hadn’t been abandoned and he hadn’t been rejected. You had left just because you cared about him, because you feared your own hunger and your own power over him.

Midnight had fallen and the mansion had grown darker, yet he could not stop thinking of you before leaving to head home. When he finally got home, to his basement in Jersey, the familiar scent of damp wood, the coarse fabric of his mattress, the shadows that clung to the corners of the room, every sensation of his homes grounded him. But they could not soothe the ache and need for you.

That night, Gerard sat on his mattress with his adult magazines spread open across his lap. The glossy pages felt cheap under his fingertips. The women looked airbrushed and fake, skin too tan, too smooth, smiles too rehearsed.

But his body was already half-hard.

He hated it. He hated how fast his mind slid back to you.

He hated not being able to focus on the objectively beautiful women on the page. He just could not focus on the inked curves of their hips, only you. The coldness of your body over his. The sting of your fangs at his throat. The humiliating sound of his own voice when he begged for you.

He spat into his hand, slicking his cock roughly. The glossy photo of the tan blonde with her legs spread open blurred as his eyes shut tight.

All he could see was you riding him, your mouth painted in his blood. Your voice calling him a good boy.

His hips thrusted helplessly into his fist. He wanted you to bite him again, to drink the life out of him until he convulsed and cried. He wanted to be consumed. There was something too intimate and sensual about being consumed.

“Fuck-” he gasped into the silence.

It didn’t take long. He came hard, spilling white strings into his own hand, stomach twitching as his thighs shook. The magazine slipped from his lap to the floor.

For a second, there was relief. Post-orgasmic peace. But then emptiness hit him hard.

Gerard wiped his hand on the bed covers, breathing hard. He felt disgusted with his own mind. It wasn’t enough. It never was.

No glossy print of porno actresses could ever touch him the way you did. No other woman could ever look at him the same way you did when you sank your teeth into his throat. No human could compare.

He curled onto his side, sticky and shaking, clutching his pillow like it might anchor him. His eyes burned. He almost laughed, bitter and wet.

“What the fuck is wrong with me…”

A deep sleep followed. It did not bring him peace, just pure horror.

It was like you were there inside of his nightmare, or almost. The basement stretched endlessly with darkness. And then a hand, clawing, appeared from beneath the bed. It reached, curved, scratched at him, as if it was trying to pull him into the void. Panic surged through his veins. He tried to scream, but no sound came. He tried to move and his body failed him. He tried to cry, but his eyes stayed dry. The dark shapes pulled him. He was helpless, consumed by fear and desire simultaneously.

You stepped from the shadows. Your presence shifted the air, making it cold enough to suffocate him in his sleep. Gerard’s heart was pounding, the freezing sweat ran down his chest.

“You’re awake,” you murmured, voice low. You were there, unhealthily close.

His wide eyes stared back at you in the dark, he was split between desperation and awe. He was afraid that if he blinked you might disappear. He swallowed hard, his lips parting, but the words came out as a broken whisper. “You’re here.���

Your gaze flicked to the glossy magazine sprawled across the floor, its obscene image shined beneath the dim nightstand lamp. The blonde woman stared up, legs spread open, exposing herself, skin too orange, smile too hollow. You picked up the magazine. Your chest tightened, something sharp boiling inside you.

You tilted your head. “So, this is what you fill your nights with, pathetic sad lonely pool boy?” The disdain in your voice cut deeper than your fangs possibly could. You didn’t need to raise your tone.

His face blushed, his hand scrambling to get the magazine out of your hands, but the cum stains across the paper betrayed him. “No, it’s not… I wasn’t…” He choked on the excuses, humiliated, shaking. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s you. I was thinking of you.”

You stepped closer, your shadow crawling over him as his body hardened. “Only me?” you echoed. You crouched down so your eyes locked with his, your cold presence suffocating him with its closeness. “Then why,” you whispered, “did you spill yourself to a stranger’s printed face, when I should be the only one owning your body?”

He flinched, ashamed. His voice cracked, pleading. “Because you’re not here. Because you’re gone and I..” He was struggling to even breathe. “I can’t stop needing you. I thought I’d lose my mind if I didn’t…”

Your hand snapped up, fingers clutching his chin. He froze. You tilted his head back, forcing his now glossy eyes to meet yours. He was about to cry. “You’re mine, Gerard. Mine. Every part of you. Your hands, your mind, your fear, your mouth, your cock, your blood, your cum.” Your grip tightened until his lips opened with a helpless gasp. “And you don’t get to waste yourself on cheap fantasies. Not when it all belongs to me.”

His pulse hit hard against your cold fingertips, you felt like you could get high on his warmth. He whimpered under your touch. “Then take me. Please. I don’t care what happens. I want it. I want you. Just don’t leave me like this. Please.”

His scent was warm, so very human. It tempted you more cruelly than any blood had before. You imagined sinking your teeth into his throat again, imagined draining him until his body went limp in your arms, until his dick fell down flat due to the lack of blood flow.

Your mouth gasped. Your fangs ached. And then you pulled away, remembering why you left on the first place.

“No,” you said firmly, releasing him so suddenly that he almost collapsed forward.

He shook his head, desperate, rejected, his knees dragging against the mattress as he followed you with pleading eyes. “Please, don’t say no. You want you, I know you do. You don’t have to fed on me, just fuck me.”

“Of course I want it. I’ve dreamed of tearing you open and drowning in your insides. If I fuck you, Gerard, I won’t stop. Do you understand me?”

Tears crept at the corners of his eyes. He crawled closer on his knees, fingers clutching at the edge of your skirt. “I want you to ruin me.”

Your hand snapped to his hair, yanking his head back until his throat arched, pale and exposed. His veins throbbed beautifully. You leaned close, your lips brushing against his skin without breaking it. His entire body was shaking beneath your grip.

“You’d beg for death so easily?” you whispered, your breath cold against his pulse. “You’d give me your whole body, your whole life and never see another sunrise again?”

“Yes,” he cried desperately “Yes, I’m yours. I’ve always been yours. Take me.”

“You don’t get it,” you snapped, voice thick with hunger and frustration. “I want you too much.”

Gerard’s lips shook, his eyes sparked with devotion. “Then let me be nothing for you,” he whispered. “As long as it’s for you.”

You turned from him, pacing the length of his basement as if the short distance might save you both.

The silence was thick, suffocating. He sobbed once, softly, clutching the sheets against him, as if they were your body. You could feel his heartbreak. But you didn’t turn around. You couldn’t.

He swallowed hard, throat tight. “Stay,” he whispered. “Just be here. Just watch over me tonight. I can’t stand being without you.”

You moved closer, quiet. “I have never wanted anything as much as I want you, Gerard.”

He reached for you, trembling, wanting to close the gap, to collapse into your cold body, to surrender entirely to you. “Please.”

For minutes that seemed hours, you sat next to him, a presence rather than a touch. Silence. His basement had been transformed by your presence.

The subtle scent of you, earthy, metallic, floral, wrapped around him. He breathed you in, each inhale sending a shiver through his chest and down his pants. His mind spiralled with memory and desire. Your lips, your teeth, the ache of you consuming him.

Gerard’s hands trembled as he reached for your leg, hesitating. You felt it too, the magnetic pull that tugged him closer. You were gone to protect him, to control your hunger, but here he was, close, staring at you with raw vulnerability and those needy eyes.

His fingers brushed the hem of your skirt, and you stopped, instinctively pulling back but he was gentle, almost shy. “I need you. Please” he cried, pleading with desperation. It made your chest tighten. “I can’t stand it. What have you done to me?”

You wanted him, needed him, but everything told you to stop, to hold back. You wanted to consume him, to take him completely, but that wasn’t what he needed right now. And still, the temptation pushed you close to him, to feel him, to let your control slip. It was painful.

He pressed closer, just a little, enough for the warmth of his body to brush against your cold skin. The scent of his blood filled your senses. You swallowed hard, caught between the desire to pull him into your arms and the terror of what your hunger could do to his innocent soul.

His fingers lingered around the lace of your underwear. He closed his eyes and leaned into you, chest against yours. You could feel his heartbeat, a reminder that he was mortal. “I want it. I want you.”

Your fingers clenched at the fabric of your skirt, as his own fingers lingered underneath it. His other hand lingered at your waist, steady and for a moment, you allowed yourself to relax. The control you had fought to maintain slowly faded away.

His eyes were filled with need, locked onto yours. His vulnerability broke something in you.

“Please…” you never thought you’d ever say that word to a living man.

And though you told yourself to step back, to maintain control, a small part of you wanted to lean in, to brush your lips against his. To let him take over.

You could feel the warmth radiating from his mouth as he approached your pussy. His tongue did not hesitate any longer. The first lick was soft, long, slow, and painful. He smiled as he finally tasted you.

He sealed his lips against your sex, enjoying every drop of your juices, toying around your folds with his tongue, softly grasping with his teeth just to hear you moan.

Gerard took his time. It had been a while since he had eaten a woman out. He wanted to make sure he had all the time to explore you with his mouth, to pleasure you without his hands. His nose was pressed against your clit, rubbing it with every motion.

His chin was now also covered in your juices, he just couldn’t stop consuming you. The same way you just could not stop yourself from pleading. Your breath caught in your throat as you moaned his name.

You reached out, hands trembling, brushing strands of hair from his forehead and he leaned into it, shivering against your cold touch.

There was only the two of you, the fragile line between desire and control, fear and surrender. Every inhale, every brush of your skin against his. You wanted him, but you could not yet let go.