we are entranced, spellbound

by ang3licwh0re

Summary:

It isn’t always that a boy draws you in the margins of his notebook and moans when you call him disgusting, but Gerard’s different in all the ways that matter.
a side story to let me hold you (like a hostage).

Notes:

best read with the context of let me hold you (like a hostage), but if you’re reading standalone, the only thing you need to know is that the ways have a little sister + mikey and pete are best friends and in a band named the acid house

Chapter 1

The basement was humid with bodies and sweat and oil paint that hadn’t fully dried. The air hung heavy, clinging to your clothes, sticky against your skin. Music thudded faintly through the floorboards above, not loud enough to dance to but just enough to feel in your ribs. Someone’s space heater buzzed in the corner, barely cutting through the chill that crept in from the concrete walls. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered like they were fighting for their life—ghostly white against smudged posters and stained drywall, making everyone look a little washed-out.

You were sitting cross-legged on a beat-up couch against the far wall, tucked halfway behind a crooked bookshelf and a dented metal end table covered in empty plastic cups. Your notebook was balanced on one knee, a Sharpie pen uncapped between your teeth. The page was already crowded with thick black lines—quick, impatient sketches that bled into one another. You weren’t here to socialize—you rarely were. You liked the noise, the color, the vagueness of it all. It was easier to observe than participate. The crowd was mostly guys in leather jackets with patches safety-pinned on, girls in ripped tights and dramatic makeup, everyone chain-smoking and pretending they weren’t trying to be seen. You blended in perfectly.

Gerard noticed you immediately.

He wasn’t looking for anyone. He was just trying not to be in the way, not to spill his beer on anyone cool, not to vomit from the nerves that had been sitting in his throat since he got there. A few of his pieces were on the wall—comic-influenced, messy ink work, all jagged teeth and burning eyes and thick black lines that didn’t quite do what he wanted them to. He’d hated all of it the second it was hung up, hated the way it looked in public lighting, hated the silence that followed when people walked past without stopping.

He’d spent the night hovering in corners, hovering near exits, drinking whatever beer had been left in the cooler too long, the kind that tasted like rusted metal and regret. His hoodie clung to him from the heat, sleeves pushed up to reveal ink-stained hands. His hair was sticking to his face in damp clumps, eyeliner smudged like a bruise under each eye.

He looked over and saw you curled up in the corner like you belonged there. Like you were part of the exhibit. You were drawing in the dim light like it was nothing, like the noise and chaos didn’t touch you. And for a moment, he forgot how to swallow. You were all sharp angles and soft shadows, winged liner and ripped stockings, the kind of girl he’d been drawn to a hundred times but never dared speak to.

He tried to be cool about it. Which meant: he stared at you too long, then panicked and looked away, then immediately looked back. He fidgeted with the label on his bottle, peeling it with his thumb until it tore in half. Checked if you were looking. You weren’t.

So he made the first move. Kind of.

He wandered closer under the pretense of looking at the wall art, trying to act casual and failing completely. His shoulders were tense. His steps were hesitant. He pretended to study the pieces next to yours before slowly shifting over, only to realize too late that your seat was directly beneath his favorite piece of the night. Not one of his own. Something someone else made. Stark red slashes across torn charcoal, angry and alive. He hadn’t been able to stop looking at it.

He pointed at it like a loser.

“That one’s… cool.”

You glanced up at him, eyeliner winged, eyes unreadable. You nodded.

Gerard’s heart exploded. “I mean—I didn’t make it,” he added quickly. “I wouldn’t say that about my own—fuck, I mean—not that mine’s… God, sorry.”

You tilted your head at him. “You’re the guy who did the one with the teeth.”

Gerard blinked. “Yeah. That’s me.”

You looked back at your notebook and kept sketching. “It’s good.”

That was it. That was all you said. But it was enough. He stood there like a nervous wreck for another full minute, trying to decide whether to stay or leave or melt into the floor. 

Then you said, “You can sit, if you want.”

He sat. And that was how it started.

You talked for hours. About art. About music. About horror movies and Catholic guilt and which sketchbook brands had the best paper. The air between you got warmer, tighter, until the background noise faded. You showed him your notebook, pages of messy brilliance, fast lines and dense detail, and he practically drooled over it, touching the edges like they were fragile. He told you about the comic he was working on and you actually listened, nodding and asking questions like it mattered. Like he mattered.

He found himself saying things he never said. That he chain-smoked when he was nervous. That he still lived with his parents and siblings and hated driving and thought about death constantly but also had a soft spot for Batman: The Animated Series and couldn’t explain why.

He walked you home after. The streetlamps buzzed overhead. His palms were sweating in the sleeves of his hoodie. 

Finally, you paused at a small apartment building, reaching into your purse.

“Well, this is me,” you said, giving him a soft, easy smile that made his heart want to burst out of his chest.

Gerard ran a hand through his greasy hair, trying to play it casual. “Yeah. Um, it was really, really nice meeting you. Can I— I hope it’s not weird or anything but, I kind of want to kiss you, and—“

You kissed him first. Soft, simple. Just long enough to leave him breathless. He made a pathetic little sound in his throat when you did, then kissed you back like he couldn’t believe it was real. His hands hovered near your waist, like he didn’t know what he was allowed to touch.

When you pulled away, he whispered, “You smell like turpentine.”

“So do you.”

He looked wrecked. You kind of loved it.

---

You’d been seeing Gerard for six weeks. Long enough to know his favorite horror movies, the way he took his coffee, and how he got an adorable little crease between his eyebrows when he laughed hard. But not long enough to feel fully prepared when he asked, one night, if you wanted to meet his family.

You’d said yes. Of course you had.

Now you were sitting at the dinner table in the Way family’s cluttered suburban house, sandwiched between Gerard and Mikey while a ceramic angel stared down at you from the hutch. The air smelled like baked chicken, cinnamon potpourri, and something floral that lingered in the upholstery. It felt a little like stepping into a thrift store that had been cleaned just enough.

Donna Way had greeted you with a wide smile and bright eyes that flicked instantly to your eyeliner, your tights, your boots. Her lips pressed together for half a second—just one tight little seam of judgment—before she recovered like a pro.

“Well! You must be Gerard’s girl!”

She was short and blonde, wearing a blouse that was two decades out of style. She poured you iced tea in a tall floral glass and asked if you were in school.

Gerard’s dad barely glanced up from the TV as you walked past the living room. He mumbled a hello, eyes locked on the game, and waved vaguely in your direction. You were fairly sure he didn’t know your name. Or Gerard’s, maybe.

Dinner was quiet. Mikey and their little sister didn’t say much—just soft murmurs, a few nods, a tiny eye-roll when Donna mentioned church. You noticed Gerard’s sister was dressed a little differently than the rest of the table. Hair curled. Light gloss on her mouth. Hoodie, but cropped. She barely touched her food, and kept checking the time.

Halfway through the meal, she stood.

“I have to go study,” she said, pushing her chair back.

“Good luck, sweetheart,” Donna said automatically.

You heard the front door click shut ten minutes later.

Nobody said anything.

---

After dinner, Gerard tugged your hand under the table, his fingers brushing your palm like a secret, and muttered something about “you’ve gotta hear the new Placebo album.”

You followed him upstairs without saying anything. His room was… exactly what you expected.

Dim. Warm. Lived-in in a way that meant nothing ever really got cleaned, just shuffled into new piles. There were clothes on the floor—clean? dirty? unclear. Sketches curled at the edges were taped up over posters, comics and CDs stacked in unstable towers across his desk. You spotted at least three empty Diet Coke cans, a crumpled fast food wrapper, and what looked like an old sock peeking out from under his bed like it had crawled there to die.

The room smelled like old laundry and boy sweat and stale cigarettes smoke.

It should’ve been gross— and, well, it kind of was.

But it was also him.

You sat down on his bed—Star Wars bedsheets rumpled, blanket half-kicked to the side—and looked around slowly, taking it all in. You bent down, picked something off the floor—an empty ramen cup, long abandoned.

“Gerard.”

“I—I was gonna throw that out.”

“When? Next year?”

He groaned and covered his face. “You weren’t supposed to actually look.”

You smiled, setting the cup back down. “It’s okay. It’s very you.”

“Meaning it’s awful?”

“Meaning it’s endearing,” you said, flopping back onto the mattress. 

He stood frozen for a second, hoodie sleeves half over his hands, cheeks pink. Then he dropped down beside you, still hiding his face behind one arm. He let out a choked little laugh, still flustered, but he looked at you like you were something sacred. 

You reached out, hooked a finger in the drawstring of his hoodie, and tugged him closer. He came willingly, all nerves and heat, sighing softly when your lips met his.

The music played low from his stereo—Sleeping With Ghosts buzzing out in faint tinny distortion, a low, moody pulse beneath the quiet. 

You pulled back just enough to murmur, “Still disgusting, though.”

He laughed again, breathless and red to his ears. “Yeah. I know.”

You kissed him one more time, just because you could.

Chapter 2: clean me off (i’m so dirty, babe!)

You weren’t even trying to start something.

You were sitting on Gerard’s bed in his oversized hoodie, the sleeves swallowing your hands, the fabric still faintly smelling like him—ink, sweat, cigarettes, that cheap cologne he always applied too heavily when he was nervous. The room around you buzzed faintly with some old ambient CD he’d forgotten to turn off, static layered under barely-there instrumentals. His bed was barely made, sheets twisted around themselves and still warm from where he’d been laying before you got there. You flipped slowly through one of his old sketchbooks, pages soft at the corners, the edges curled like they’d been slept on.

Gerard was curled into your side like a weighted blanket, all limbs and tension.His hair was a mess, curling against his temple in little damp waves, and he kept nuzzling against your hoodie like he was trying to climb inside it. Every so often, he nosed up toward your jaw and inhaled deeply, letting out these small, almost involuntary sounds—soft little whimpers, desperate and unconscious, like he needed you in a way that hurt him.

The two of you had been making out; but you’d gotten too warm (and had wanted to tease him). This had led to the both of you having stripped down to your underwear. That left Gerard in a Modest Mouse shirt and his boxers, and you in his hoodie and a pair of panties.

You felt it first—his slow, steady rocking. The subtle push of his hips against your thigh, barely-there friction at first. The kind of motion that could almost be accidental. It could almost be passed off as shifting for comfort. Except it wasn’t. You could feel how deliberate it was in the way his breath started hitching, in the slight tremble that moved through his legs every time he pressed in a little harder.

“Gerard,” you said, not even looking up. “Are you humping me?”

“No,” he mumbled immediately.

You glanced down. His cheeks were already flushed, blotchy pink spreading down his neck. His hair was falling into his face, sticking to his forehead. His lips were parted just slightly, breath already unsteady in that way you knew so well.

“I am not—” he insisted, still rocking against you. His hips pressed in again, slower this time, like he could somehow make it less obvious.

“Gee.”

He groaned—sharp and ashamed, muffled into your chest. “Okay. Yes. Fuck. I’m sorry. I can’t help it, you’re so—I just—”

You slid your hand into his hair, fingers twisting at the roots, and tugged lightly. His breath caught instantly. He gasped like he’d been hit with something holy. His hips jerked forward again, helpless.

“You little pervert,” you murmured, stroking his scalp with the kind of affection that felt at odds with your words. “Humping my leg like a desperate puppy. You don’t even ask, you just start rutting like I’m gonna let you get away with it.”

His voice went hoarse. “You always let me get away with it,” he whispered, dazed and crumbling.

You smiled, lips curling slow and sharp. “Unfortunately.”

He kept going. Harder now. His breath turned wet at the edges. You could feel how hard he was through the thin fabric of his boxers, the twitch of him with every grind. A wet patch was starting to spread where his cock pressed into your thigh, warmth seeping into your skin. His rhythm had gone uneven—too desperate to keep steady, hips stuttering as if his body was trying to outpace his own desire.

“Do you wanna fuck me, Gerard?”

He froze like the breath had been stolen straight out of him. He looked up at you, mouth slightly open, eyes wide and blown black, like you’d told him he’d won the lottery and died in the same moment.

“Wh—what?”

You leaned down and kissed him, slow and deliberate, one hand still tangled in his hair, the other sliding down his back like you were marking your territory.

“I said, do you wanna fuck me like the desperate boy you are?”

He moaned like it hurt. “Yes,” he gasped. “God, yes. But I don’t wanna fuck it up—”

You knew Gerard wasn’t a virgin. Despite that, he’d confided in you that the one time he had sex, it wasn’t a good experience. 

You were determined to change things for him.

“You won’t,” you said, peeling your hoodie up over your head in one fluid motion, baring your skin to him like it was something inevitable. “I’ll teach you.” 

He was already shaking before your underwear hit the floor.

Gerard’s hands trembled when they landed on your waist, uncertain even as they tightened. He touched you like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to, like every brush of his fingertips might wake him up from something he didn’t deserve to dream about. His mouth moved all over you—clumsy, reverent, wet. He mouthed at your chest like he was trying to brand himself into your skin. His tongue flicked tentatively at your nipple and you felt his whole body jolt at the sound you made.

You guided him down gently, your thumbs brushing his cheeks, and he settled between your legs like it was where he’d always belonged. His hands trembled a little as he grasped your thighs. You weren’t sure if it was nerves or excitement. Probably both.

He looked up at you from between your thighs like he was about to pray.

He was awkward at first. Careful, tentative little licks, like he wasn’t sure what you’d like—like he was afraid to mess it up. His tongue was soft, slow, and way too polite. You threaded your fingers into his hair and gave a gentle tug, just to encourage him.

“Don’t be shy,” you murmured. “You’re allowed to be messy.”

He moaned. You felt it.

His tongue dragged up the length of your slit, slower this time, more confident. He lapped at you like he was learning you, trying to memorize what made you sigh, what made you gasp, what made your thighs twitch. He groaned every time you whimpered. Looked up at you through his lashes every few seconds, checking, checking, checking—desperate to know he was doing it right.

“You’re doing so well for me,” You encouraged. “My good boy,”

He whined at that and started grinding into the mattress without even noticing.

You laughed breathlessly. “You’re humping the bed?”

He pulled back for half a second, flushed and wrecked. “I can’t help it. You taste—fuck.”

You grabbed his hair and pulled him back in.

His mouth got bolder, his movements sloppier. He sucked at your clit needily. When you arched your back and cried out, he moaned into you like it was happening to him.

You came with your thighs trembling around his head, and he didn’t stop—kept licking, kept whimpering, kept clutching at your hips like he couldn’t bear to let go.

You finally tugged him up, gasping, your thighs soaked and shaking. He climbed over you, panting, lips shiny with spit and slick.

“Holy shit,” you breathed. “You’re such a fucking munch.”

He blinked. “Is that… good?”

You pulled him down into a kiss.

“The best.”

And he just smiled—messy, dazed, completely in love—and kissed you back. You let your hands roam his chest and waist, warming them on his flushed skin.

But when you pulled his boxers down, your breath caught.

“Oh,” you said.

Gerard flinched. “Oh?”

You stared at his cock—thick, flushed, already twitching and leaking against his stomach. He was bigger than you’d presumed; even though you’d seen his bulge several times. You were still warm and sensitive, soaked through from his mouth, but the second you pictured him inside, your whole body clenched with want.

“Did you know you were this big?” you asked, eyebrows raised, voice still teasing—but it cracked at the end.

He blinked like you’d slapped him. “I—I don’t think I am—wait, really?”

You wrapped your hand around him slowly, watching his hips twitch. He gasped, thighs tensing under your touch.

“Really.”

He blushed all the way down to his collarbone, chest already flushed and heaving. You could see the way he melted into it, the way praise made his body give out.

“Come on, baby. I want you to fuck me,” You coaxed gently. 

He was so careful when he lined himself up—knees spread, hands shaky, eyes flicking to yours over and over. You nodded for him to keep going, wrapped your legs around his waist, and pulled him in.

The stretch was immediate. Deep. You weren’t ready. You’d thought you were, but as he sank into you—inch by inch, trembling, gasping—you realized you’d underestimated him.

He bottomed out with a slow roll of his hips and your mouth dropped open, a broken gasp dragging from your throat.

“Jesus, fuck—” you hissed. “Gerard—baby—don’t move yet, I—fuck.”

His hands clutched your hips like he was bracing for impact. He froze, breath gone ragged.

“I’m sorry—should I pull out?”

“No,” you breathed. “Just stay. Just give me a second.”

He nodded, staying perfectly still, cock twitching inside you. His face hovered close, lips parted, pupils huge. His thighs shook where they pressed against yours. You could feel the restraint vibrating in him like a held note.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, held him tight to your chest, and nodded.

“You’re filling me up so good. So good for me, baby.”

He moaned—needy and choked—and dropped his head to your neck like he was trying to disappear. You clenched around him deliberately, and he let out a sob.

“Fuck—I’m not gonna last—I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” you murmured. “Come on, Gee. Fuck me.”

There was no rhythm when he started moving. Just frantic, stuttering thrusts, uneven but deep. His hips slammed into yours like he didn’t know what to do with all the sensation, his body working faster than his mind.

You saw stars.

Every angle he hit had you gasping, back arching, the pleasure crawling up your spine in sharp, electric bursts. You’d meant to stay in control, meant to ride the power trip. But he was thick and warm and perfect, dragging over nerves you didn’t know you had. You clung to him, clawed at his back, moaned his name like you needed him to stay alive.

Gerard was a mess above you, mouth open and breath stuttering. Saying your name between helpless moans like it was the only thing he remembered.

“I love you,” he said as he fucked into you. “I love you so much. You feel so good—I don’t ever wanna stop—fuck—”

You pulled him closer and let him fall apart, burying himself as deep as he could go. His spend spilled hot inside you, warmth blooming low in your stomach.

He collapsed against your chest, still gasping for air, limbs trembling like he’d run himself into the ground.

You held him like he was the most precious thing in the world.

---

Mikey’s band practice was happening in the Way family basement, which meant: you, Gerard, and Gerard’s little sister were squished onto the beat-up loveseat against the far wall while “The Acid House” blasted through a chaotic, barely-held-together version of a song they’d purportedly written the night before. It was loud, sweaty, and full of feedback. You kind of loved it.

Gerard kept touching you—his knee against yours, his hand in your lap, his head dropping to your shoulder whenever the bass got too deep and rattled his spine. He mumbled commentary between songs, all little asides like, “They’re gonna blow out Mikey’s amp again,” and “That’s the third time they’ve played that bridge, I don’t think they know how to end it.”

You were about to make a joke back when he walked in.

Pete.

He strolled down the stairs like he belonged there. Leather jacket half-zipped, eyeliner smudged on purpose, that cocky little smile already in place. The room shifted when he entered, like someone had flipped a magnet under the floorboards.

“Hey, guys, sorry I’m late,” he grinned.

Mikey perked up immediately. “Pete! Dude, where the fuck have you been?”

They bumped fists, loud and showy. Gerard gave a small wave from your side, which Pete returned without really looking.

And then—

“Hi, Pete,” came a voice that was just a little too bright.

You glanced to your right. Gerard’s little sister sat up straighter, her lip gloss catching the light. Her hoodie—cute, cropped, clearly styled—rode up just enough to show a sliver of stomach. She was all soft perfume and flushed cheeks, watching him like he hung the moon.

You looked down at your own outfit. Old band tee. Smudged eyeliner. No effort. 

Pete looked her way and smiled—charming, easy, practiced.

“Hey, kid. I like the hoodie.”

Your stomach twisted.

She giggled.

Nobody else seemed to notice. Mikey had gone back to tuning. Gerard leaned into you again like nothing had happened. You just… stared at Pete, who caught your eye, nodded politely, and then looked away.

He hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d been perfectly nice. But something about the way he smiled, the way he walked into the room and pulled all the attention with him—something about him felt off. Too smooth. Too practiced.

You couldn’t explain it. But you didn’t like it.

---

You and Gerard left early. He made up something about “needing to get to CVS before it closed,” and his sister didn’t even look up when you went. She was watching Pete talk to the guitarist, smiling too hard at whatever dumb story he was telling.

Gerard squeezed your hand the whole walk home.

Back at your place, he got needy the second the door shut behind you.

Clothes were half-on, half-off before you hit the bed. He mouthed at your neck like he was starving, tongue dragging over your collarbone, muttering “missed you” and “need you” between kisses.

You pushed him down, straddled him, spat in his mouth just to see the way his eyes rolled back. He choked on it, whined for more.

“God, you’re disgusting,” you murmured. “My good little whore.”

He nodded. “M’yours.”

You pressed him down onto the bed, straddling his hips, and kissed him until he went pliant under your hands—his breath going soft and shallow, his fingers clinging to your thighs like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

“Can I take care of you?” you whispered, already kissing down his jaw.

He nodded frantically. “Please.”

You tugged at the waistband of his jeans, sliding them down enough to free him, and his cock slapped against his stomach—already flushed, already leaking. You licked your lips and heard him moan like he couldn’t help it.

“Look at you,” you murmured, wrapping your hand around him. “Hard just from a little attention. You’re so fucking easy.”

He whined. “I can’t help it, I—I get like this when I’m with you—”

You kissed the tip, then licked a stripe up the underside, slow and teasing. His thighs twitched.

You didn’t stop. You took him into your mouth, slow and deliberate, letting your tongue drag along the sensitive underside. He gasped, one hand flying to your hair but not pulling—just resting there, trembling.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed. “You don’t have to—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

You popped off for a moment, stroking him lazily. “You’re allowed to.”

He looked like he might cry from how much he needed it.

You went back down, faster this time. You took him deeper, hollowed your cheeks, let yourself moan around him because you wanted him to hear it, wanted him to know what he did to you. He bucked up into your mouth, helpless and apologetic.

You let him. You let him fuck up into your throat, messy and desperate and teetering right on the edge. You bobbed your head faster, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, your free hand clutching his thigh to keep him steady.

He came with a choked-off sob, hot and sudden and shaking, his hips stuttering, your name breaking apart in his throat.

You swallowed everything. Slowly. Let him feel it.

When you pulled off, he looked wrecked. Blinking up at the ceiling like he’d been wiped clean.

You climbed up beside him, wiped your mouth, and kissed his temple.

You curled up after, sweaty and tangled, the sheets kicked halfway off the bed. The room was thick with warmth, the smell of sex still in the air. Gerard’s chest still heaved a little from the comedown, his lips kiss-bitten and parted as he blinked dazedly at the ceiling like he hadn’t quite come back to earth yet.

One of his hands—still trembling slightly—rested low on your belly, not possessive, just there, grounding him. His thumb rubbed idle little circles against your skin, barely noticeable.

You turned your head on the pillow to look at him. His hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands. His cheeks were flushed, lashes fluttering as he fought to stay awake in the post-orgasm haze.

“Gerard,” you murmured.

He hummed in response, a soft sound that came from deep in his throat.

“That Pete guy. You like him?”

He turned his head slightly to gaze at you, brow furrowing. “Pete? Yeah. He’s cool. Mikey’s best friend. He’s been hanging around basically forever.”

You nodded slowly. Your fingers toyed with the hem of the pillowcase.

“He’s… something,” you muttered.

Gerard blinked. “What do you mean?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. He was nice. Just kinda… skeevy, maybe.”

He looked at you for a long second, like he was trying to put the pieces together, then gave you a puzzled little glance. “I’ve never noticed that.”

“Hmm.”

You didn’t push it. Just leaned in and pressed a kiss to his shoulder—warm, lingering, fond. He closed his eyes at the touch, relaxing further into the bed like his bones were finally catching up to his heartbeat.

He didn’t ask again. And you didn’t offer more.

Chapter 3: this charming man

The call came just as you were toeing off your boots by the front door.

“What’s up?” you answered, a little surprised. It wasn’t like Gerard to call this early on a Saturday. He usually slept half the day away unless something was seriously eating at him—or unless he missed you, which tended to be its own kind of emergency.

“Are you busy?” His voice came through the line soft and hesitant, the words carrying the weight of something unspoken.

You glanced around your apartment. The afternoon light filtered through the curtains in lazy stripes, dust suspended in it like glitter. Your backpack was still slung over one shoulder, the strap digging in, a reminder that you’d just clocked out of your shift twenty minutes ago.

“No,” you said, letting the door swing shut behind you as you walked further inside. “You wanna go do something, baby?” You were already thinking about what to wear, fingers itching to change out of your work clothes. There was no point sinking into your couch if Gerard needed you.

There was a pause, and then, “D’you wanna come over? I went to Blockbuster earlier and I don’t have anybody to watch this stuff with…” His voice faded off into something quiet and unsure.

Your heart softened immediately.

His brother and his sister had been gone just a few days, off on that chaotic, questionably supervised tour. Gerard had played it cool when they left, shrugging it off with a smile and some casual talk about how he was glad they were getting the experience. But you could tell he already hated it. You knew how tightly wound the three of them were, how tangled up in each other they’d evidently always been. The Way house must’ve felt hollow without them.

You’d been meaning to get Gerard out of his shell a little more—maybe introduce him to your friends from the art collective, or take him to one of those poetry nights you always said you’d drag him to. Not because you wanted to change him, exactly, but… it just didn’t seem healthy for someone’s social circle to be primarily made up of their siblings and their equally reclusive little art-goth girlfriend. You loved his introverted nature, his odd little cave of a room, his mind always three steps deep into some strange idea—but still. It wouldn’t kill him to have someone else to talk to now and then.

But you hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

“Sure, baby. Want me to bring anything?” You asked.

“Just… yourself, I guess. My mom’s making meatloaf if you wanna stay for dinner.”

---

That was how you ended up on the Way’s porch half an hour later. The air was thick and humid, the kind of muggy spring warmth that clung to your skin and made the world feel heavy—like the sky was holding its breath. Storms had been threatening all week, and it seemed like the clouds were finally ready to make good on their promise.

You had barely pulled your hand back from the doorbell when it creaked open.

It wasn’t Gerard.

Donna Way stood in the doorway, wearing a pale green blouse and a strained sort of smile, like she hadn’t been expecting company. Her eyes flicked over you—your eyeliner, your combat boots, the skulls on your bag strap—and then back up to your face. Not unkind, but definitely surprised.

“Oh. Hello.” She didn’t step aside right away.

“Hi, Mrs. Way,” you said, offering your best polite smile, the one you’d perfected for skeptical adults. “Gee invited me over. He said you were making meatloaf?”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly, the only visible betrayal of her confusion. “Did he?”

You nodded, staying pleasant even as the air between you thickened with something other than humidity. She clearly hadn’t been informed. Great. You felt a small pang of guilt, even though it wasn’t your fault—Gerard had a habit of forgetting these things. Or maybe avoiding them.

Still, after a pause that felt too long, she stepped back to let you in. “Well… I suppose you’d better come in, then. Shoes off, please.”

You toed off your boots in the entryway, setting them neatly beside the door, and wiped your palms on your skirt before following her inside. The house smelled faintly of laundry detergent and onions. From down the hall, you could hear the low hum of the TV and what sounded to be an ESPN broadcast.

Donna led the way toward the kitchen but didn’t make much conversation. You got the sense she was biting her tongue, trying to balance being a good hostess with the frustration of being caught off guard. It wasn’t personal—at least, you hoped it wasn’t. “You can go on up,” she said finally, her voice tight but even. “Dinner’ll be ready soon. Tell Gerard not to let it get cold.”

“Thanks,” you said softly.

As you made your way toward the stairs, you could feel her eyes on your back. Not cold, exactly—just watching. Measuring. Like she was trying to make sense of you, of how you’d ended up here, tangled up in her son’s quiet little world.

You padded up the staircase, the carpet worn soft under your feet, familiar by now. At the top, the air smelled faintly of pencil shavings and laundry and the lingering trace of Gerard— a scent you couldn’t name but had already begun to associate with comfort.

You didn’t bother knocking.

The door creaked as you pushed it open, revealing a sliver of light cutting across the dim room. Gerard was stretched out on his stomach across the bed, one arm tucked beneath his cheek, a comic book splayed open in front of him. He looked soft like this—hair tousled, sleeves pushed up, socked feet swaying lazily in the air. The stereo in the corner hummed with something ambient and low, barely louder than a whisper.

“Hi, baby,” you murmured, voice light.

He perked up immediately. His whole face lit up, then he was off the bed in a heartbeat, crossing the room with surprising speed. You barely had time to laugh before he wrapped you up in his arms, pulling you in so tight you thought your feet might leave the floor.

“Gee—!”

He actually lifted you, arms snug around your waist, and spun you once in a dizzy little circle. A delighted squeal escaped your throat, your arms flinging around his neck more out of reflex than anything else.

“Jesus Christ, where’d that come from?” you giggled, breathless when he set you down.

Gerard grinned sheepishly, cheeks a little pink. “I don’t know,” he said, ducking his head. “Missed you.”

You reached to brush a strand of hair out of his face, heart fluttering a little. “You saw me two days ago.”

“I know.” His voice dropped, softer now. “Still missed you.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, tugging him close until your lips met his in a kiss that was slow and languid at first—more savoring than devouring. His hands slid instinctively to your waist, fingers pressing through the fabric of your shirt before one hand crept upward, pushing beneath the hem. His palm met bare skin, warm and slightly calloused, and the touch sent a shiver rippling through you.

When you nipped at his bottom lip, he let out a soft, wounded whine—a sound so pitifully desperate it made you smile against his mouth.

Gerard shifted his body weight, pulling back from the kiss slightly. He stared at you for a moment, long lashes fluttering. “Y’know, it’s supposed to rain tonight. And— and I’d hate for you to have to go home in that kind of weather.”

“Is this your way of suggesting I sleep over?”

He blushed, tried to play it off with a little shrug. “Um, maybe? Is that too forward?”

“Gerard, I’ve had your dick in my mouth. There’s no such thing as too forward at this point.”

He groaned softly at that and kissed you again. He started walking you back, lips locked to yours like he couldn’t stop. Your footsteps were clumsy, almost tripping over god-knows-what on the floor—loose sketchbooks, a balled-up hoodie, an empty Coke can that clattered under your heel. But Gerard didn’t seem to notice. His entire focus was on you, dazed and single-minded.

He broke the kiss only when your knees hit the edge of the bed. Gently, he guided you down, palms firm on your hips as he followed you, crawling over you like he couldn’t stand the space between. He kissed you again before you had time to catch your breath, lips warm and needy, mouth already a little slick from you.

You tangled your fingers in his hair—soft at the ends, greasy at the roots—and gave a gentle tug to get his attention.

It barely registered. He only made a pitiful sound, something like a whimper, and pressed closer, like the weight of him on top of you still wasn’t enough.

You could feel him already, straining through the thin cotton of his pajama pants, pressed snug between your thighs. And he’d barely even touched you yet.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, brushing your thumb along his flushed cheekbone before letting your eyes drift downward. His lips were kiss-swollen, parted slightly, pink and glistening.

“You’re already hard?” you teased, raising a brow.

His answer came muffled against your neck, voice low and petulant. “Your fault.”

“Yeah?” You smirked, hooking your knee around his hip and grinding your hips up against his deliberately slow. “Yeah, it is.”

The whimper that escaped him was downright pathetic, and you loved it. Loved the way his breath caught, the way his fingers gripped at your hips like he was trying to ground himself. Loved how easy it was to unravel him. His hips moved in a choppy rhythm, grinding against you with growing urgency, the friction clearly not enough but still making him gasp like it might be.

“God, Gee. You’re so desperate for it,” you murmured, half-mocking, half-melting. And it was true—Gerard had never exactly been subtle about how badly he wanted you. But today, he was something else entirely. Raw and practically vibrating with need.

“I’m—” He gasped, then tried again, grinding against you with a sluggish, needy roll of his hips. “I just wanna be good for you,” he breathed out, the words hitching in his throat. His brows were drawn together in that soft, earnest way that always made your heart flutter. Mouth slack, cheeks flushed, and rutting against you like a dog in heat. “Anything you want. I just—I need you so bad.”

You reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair back behind his ear, fingertips tender. “You are good. You’re so good for me, baby,” you cooed, voice all honey. “You just need me to touch you, is that what it is, Gerard?”

He nodded fast, frantic, like his whole body hinged on your approval. “Mhm,” he whimpered.

You grinned, almost pitying in your affection. “Use your words, sweet thing,” you coached, the edge of your thumb stroking his jaw.

“I— I want you to touch me,” he gasped, hips rocking again, messy and impatient. “Please, please, I—”

He choked on the last word when your hand slipped between the two of you, pushing past the waistband of his pajama pants and down into his underwear. You wrapped your fingers around his cock, warm and firm, and he bucked into your palm like he’d been electrocuted.

“Fuck—” he sobbed out, breath hitching as his body arched into your touch. “Oh my god—oh my god.”

You hummed sweetly, stroking him slow, deliberate, just to watch him fall apart. His whole body trembled like it was too much and not enough all at once—shoulders tight, thighs twitching, every part of him straining toward your touch like he couldn’t bear the space between you.

“Poor baby,” you whispered, brushing your lips just barely against the corner of his mouth. “So sensitive today.”

“I haven’t—” he breathed, voice trembling, “—I haven’t came at all since the last time I saw you.”

You tilted your head, letting your fingers slow to a teasing crawl. “Yeah?”

He nodded into your neck, flushed and panting. “Wanted to wait… ‘til I saw you again.”

Your mouth curled into a wicked grin. “Two whole days,” you murmured, voice syrupy with mock sympathy. “How did you ever last, sweet thing?”

He let out the smallest, most desperate whine into your skin, burying his face in the crook of your neck like he could hide from how pathetic he sounded. His breath came in hot, uneven bursts against your collarbone, like even your teasing had him close.

“I missed you,” he mumbled, half-apology, half-prayer. “Missed the way you touch me, missed your voice—everything. I just—I couldn’t.”

You tightened your grip just slightly, dragging your thumb along the head of his cock, and he shuddered, biting down on a moan.

“You couldn’t what?” you murmured. “You couldn’t touch yourself without me?”

“I tried,” he admitted, brokenly. “Didn’t feel right.”

God, he was so pathetic. And you loved him like this—loved that you’d made him this way.

You kissed his jaw, slow and sweet, lips dragging just enough to make him shiver. “Good boy,” you whispered, letting the praise drip like honey. “Keep begging for it, baby. I wanna hear everything.”

He whimpered, mouthing at your throat again like he couldn’t help himself, panting softly against your skin. You let him have it for a moment, let him hide, nuzzle, breathe you in—but only for a moment. Then your fingers tightened in his hair, firm and possessive, tugging him back so you could see his face. He blinked up at you, dazed, glassy-eyed.

Just to push him further, you gave your wrist a subtle twist, pumping him slow and wicked. Your thumb circled the head again, and his whole body jerked like he’d been shocked.

“I want… want it, please,” he mumbled hoarsely, voice frayed around the edges. His hazel eyes were wide, pupils blown so dark they’d nearly swallowed the color whole. He looked wrecked. Beautifully, pathetically wrecked.

“Want what, Gerard?” you asked, keeping your tone soft, coaxing. “Be a good boy and use your words.”

His hips moved against your hand on instinct, greedy and erratic. “Please,” he gasped, almost breathless. “I need it so bad—need to cum for you, please, honey, I can’t—”

You smiled, slow and indulgent. God, he was always like this. So easy to unravel. It never took long; just a touch, a look, a word whispered in the right tone and he was gone.

And he always came quick. Desperate. Like his body had been waiting for this from the second he saw you.

You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear. “You gonna cum just from this?” you whispered, stroking him a little faster now, a little meaner. “From my hand? Haven’t even taken your pants off all the way.”

Gerard whimpered, nodding with something close to shame, but his hips never stopped their frantic, grinding rhythm against your hand. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink, his lashes damp with the effort it took not to come already.

“Such a mess already,” you murmured, voice low and fond, almost amused. “But you’re my mess, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he gasped, voice cracking open with need. “Yes—please, sugar, I need it, need to cum for you, please—”

He was getting too loud, too desperate, his voice echoing in the otherwise quiet room, and you knew his parents were downstairs. You pressed a firm kiss to his mouth to shush him, biting his bottom lip just enough to make him whimper against you again.

“Alright, sweet thing,” you whispered, brushing your lips over his, a smile tugging at the corners. “Shh. You can cum whenever you feel like it.”

His whole body jerked at your words, the permission making something in him come undone.

“Thank you,” he babbled, breath hitching with every stroke. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou—”

You didn’t stop touching him, didn’t stop cooing in his ear or kissing his flushed cheeks, even as he gasped your name and fell apart in your hand—trembling, twitching, desperate to give himself over to you completely. You held him through all of it, watched the way his pretty face contorted,

“Good boy, Gee,” you cooed, brushing your fingers through the sweaty hair clinging to his temple. “So good for me.”

He laughed softly, breath catching in the back of his throat, the tremor of release still visible in his shuddering shoulders. “Holy fuck, I love you,” he blurted, voice wrecked and hoarse but sure.

You turned your head, kissed his cheek—warm, damp, pink with exertion. “I love you more.”

His hands, still trembling a little, found their way back under your shirt, fingertips skimming over the sensitive skin of your stomach like he needed to stay touching you or else he’d fall apart again. He was still catching his breath when he reached up with surprising dexterity, fingers working the clasp of your bra like it was second nature.

“Gerard—”

But before you could even get the warning out, he had it unhooked. Your bra was yanked away and flung into the abyss of his floor without a second thought, probably landing on top of a half-drawn sketch or his latest failed attempt at laundry.

You didn’t even have the chance to scold him before he was tugging your shirt up—impatient, single-minded—and ducking his head, latching onto your breast like he needed it.

His mouth was hot, wet, insistent. He sucked hard, tongue circling, mouth sealing over your nipple with desperate reverence. Your back arched before you could stop it.

“Oh, Gerard—oh—” you gasped, hands flying to his hair as he suckled sloppily, nosing into your chest like he couldn’t get close enough. He groaned when your fingers tugged, not even caring how messy he was, how wrecked you sounded now.

It was your turn to whine, breath hitching with every greedy pull of his mouth. He switched sides without warning, lips trailing sticky, open-mouthed kisses across your sternum as he buried himself against you again.

You both froze at the sound of Gerard’s name being called from downstairs, sharp and unmistakable—his mother’s voice, slicing right through the heat between you.

Your lips stayed parted, breath still caught in your throat, his mouth warm and damp against your neck. The room was quiet now except for the sound of both of you breathing, flushed and tangled.

Gerard groaned, forehead dropping against your shoulder in defeat. “I’m guessing dinner’s done.”

You let out a breathless laugh, fingers still curled in his hair. “What gave it away? The timing or the tone?”

He whined softly, nuzzling into your skin like maybe if he stayed perfectly still, time would reverse and you could go back to five seconds ago. “I don’t wanna go downstairs,” he muttered. “I just came in my pants. This is hell.”

You laughed again, gently pushing at his chest. “Well whose fault is that?”

“Yours,” he said immediately, peeking up at you with the most pitiful expression, cheeks still flushed, lips kiss-bitten and shiny. “You ruined me.”

You leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose. “You ruined yourself, sweet thing.”

He sighed dramatically, flopping onto the bed beside you like his soul had left his body. “Tell her I died.”

“You wish,” you snorted, sitting up and starting to fix your shirt. “C’mon. You said meatloaf. The least you can do is feed me before I let you hump me through your pajama pants again.”

He groaned louder. “I’m never gonna make it through dinner.”

You smirked over your shoulder. “That’s not my problem, baby.”

Notes:

come say hi on tumblr @decaydancedeaddove and twitter @L0VE_SEX_DEATH :)

Chapter 4: i can’t control myself because i don’t know how

Notes:

trigger warning in this chapter for bloodplay/period kink >_< so if that’s not your cuppa you might want to skip this one <3

Getting to wake up in Gerard’s arms was maybe your new favorite thing. 

His face was buried in your hair, his breath soft and uneven against the back of your neck while he clung to you like a vine. You shifted a little, and he groaned like you’d just stolen his lifeline.

“Don’t move,” he whined, voice scratchy with sleep.

You smiled to yourself. “I was just stretching.”

He grumbled, squeezing you tighter. His lips brushed your shoulder lazily, a half-conscious kiss. “Stay here forever.”

You rolled onto your back, nudging him gently until he blinked at you through half-lidded eyes. His hair was a mess, sticking in every direction, eyeliner from the night before faintly smudged beneath his lashes. He looked unfairly beautiful like that.

“You know what would make this perfect?” you teased.

He made a noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “Don’t say ‘leaving the bed.’”

You kissed the tip of his nose, smirking. “Leaving the bed.”

He whimpered; full-on, actually whimpered. “Nooo.”

“Yes,” you said firmly, sitting up and dragging the blanket with you. “Coffee run. Come on. You’ll thank me when you’re holding a giant cup of overpriced caffeine.”

“I could just make some here,” he said, tugging weakly at your wrist like a sulky child. “We don’t even have to wear pants for that.”

You playfully rolled your eyes. “We can be pantsless later. I need some coffee in my system.”

You tugged on a pair of jeans, not bothering with full makeup—just eyeliner smudged a little more intentionally and a band tee. You knew better than to go full goth regalia for a simple morning coffee run, but Gerard was still dragging his feet, shirt halfway over his head before he flopped back onto the mattress with a dramatic groan.

You huffed, playful annoyance in your tone. “Gee.”

He peeked out from under his tangle of hair, already smirking. “One more kiss and I’ll move.”

“You said that last time.”

“Yeah, but this time I mean it.”

You leaned down anyway, pressing a slow kiss to his mouth. He made a sound like you’d just given him oxygen, hands already tugging at your shirt, trying to coax you back down.

“Gerard,” you scolded, pulling away before he could trap you. “Coffee.”

He pouted, but finally dragged himself out of bed, muttering under his breath about how the coffee “better be worth it.”

The café was half-empty when you got there, a soft hum of conversation under the clatter of mugs, and it smelled like burnt espresso and sugar.

You slid into a booth by the window, Gerard collapsing across from you like he’d just run a marathon. His hoodie sleeves swallowed his hands as he wrapped them around his cup, blowing on the steam before taking a cautious sip.

God, he was pretty. The daylight through the glass caught the soft curve of his jaw, the faint smudge of eyeliner he hadn’t bothered to fix, the little curl of his hair where it hadn’t dried right. 

You stirred your coffee absently, letting the steam fog your eyeliner just a little, when a dull ache curled low in your stomach. At first, you ignored it. Just hunger, maybe. But the second twinge had you pressing your thighs together under the table, a quiet oh, crap flashing through your mind.

Great. Of course.

You shifted in your seat, trying to be subtle as another wave of cramps tugged at you, sharp and insistent. You blew on your coffee, hoping the warmth would trick your body into cooperating, but another cramp twisted through you and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from wincing.

Across the table, Gerard was staring out the window like he was cataloguing every passerby for a sketch later, his lips parted, his fingers tapping lightly against the cardboard sleeve of his cup. 

You were glad for it, secretly. Not that you didn’t love his siblings—you did, in your own way—but he was so often split between them, orbiting their moods, making sure they were alright. It felt like a small gift to have him just to yourself. No Mikey, no sister, no noise. Just Gerard, bleary-eyed and entirely yours for the morning.

Another cramp rolled through your stomach, unmistakable. Your period had the worst timing imaginable. You tried to school your expression, sipping again like nothing was wrong, but your mind was already racing through the contents of your bag. Did you pack anything? You couldn’t remember. You’d just grabbed your usual shopping tote, planning to go browsing for records after coffee, and threw your wallet, keys, and cell phone in there.

Gerard, oblivious, was chattering now—this time about the latest X-Men storyline. You glanced at him, hair tousled and messy, eyebrows dark above soft eyes. He leaned forward over the table, transparent energy radiating in every lean and smile.

“So there’s this twist—Cyclops, okay, he gets duplicated,” he said, voice low but energized. “Like, full-on duplicate. One of them is possessed by the Phoenix. But they don’t realize who’s who at first, and they’re all freaking out.” he paused for the briefest second to sip his coffee. “Like, Wolverine’s on edge, Storm’s trying to keep things grounded, Jean… well, Jean’s freaking out, and Professor X is—get this—trying to contact them psychically, but the Phoenix copy is blocking him. It’s insane.”

You nodded and sipped again. The warmth dulled the edges of the ache, at least a little. “That sounds… intense.”

“It was!” He beamed, oblivious to your inner world. “The art was crazy, too. Full-page panels of Phoenix energy—like, red and gold Aurora-borealis-on-acid splashed across the page. Makes me wonder if they’re bringing Apocalypse back or just amplifying the cosmic side.”

You swallowed around a wince. But God, he looked so good running through it all, lit up and animated. You leaned into the little high, despite the cramps, just to stare at him.

Gerard frowned slightly, “What’s that face?”

You blinked up at him. “What face?”

“That one.” He mimicked it—lips pursed, brow furrowed, eyes a little narrowed. It would’ve been funny if you didn’t feel like your uterus was trying to kill you.

“Nothing,” you lied smoothly, leaning back against the seat. “Just hot coffee face.”

He narrowed his eyes, unconvinced, and reached across the table to poke at your hand with one ink-stained finger. “You’re lying.”

“I am not.” Another cramp hit, harder this time, and you nearly winced.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Okay. Breathe. It was fine. You’d survive coffee, get back to your place, and then deal with it. Nothing catastrophic had happened yet. It was just the warning shots, the low throb that meant you had maybe an hour before things got messy.

Shopping was off the table. With the way your body was already tightening up, you mentally struck the whole plan off the list. You knew how this went. The cramps came hard and early, and soon you’d be curled up somewhere, wishing you hadn’t picked gray jeans of all days.

---

Back home, the instant the door clicked shut behind you, Gerard acted on impulse. He tugged you onto the couch with him and on his lap, arms winding around your waist, holding you like he couldn’t let go. His lips found yours in a slow, warm kiss, one that pressed you into the couch cushions and made the ache in your stomach almost forgettable for a heartbeat.

Then reality hit. You shifted, tugging gently away. “Uh… wait,” you mumbled, fumbling off his lap clumsily.

Gerard scrambled to follow you, eyes wide, concern written in every line of his face. “What— are you okay?” His voice was soft and a little shaky.

“I… I need a pad. My period started,” you admitted, holding up a hand. Your cheeks warmed, but you reminded yourself that it was Gerard. He had never once acted put off by anything you had done. You didn’t need to feel embarrassed.

For a long moment, he just stared at you. Then his eyes went wide, and he let out a drawn-out, “Oh.” The fascination in his expression was palpable. 

For a beat too long he just blinked at you, processing. Then, instead of recoiling or brushing it off, he tilted his head, curiosity flickering across his face like a cat noticing movement. “Like… right now?”

You huffed a laugh, halfway embarrassed, halfway endeared. “Yes, Gee. Right now.”

He scrambled up, following close on your heels as you made your way down the hall. “Do you—uh, do you need me to get you anything? Like… towels? Water? Chocolate?” He was rattling things off like he was preparing for a natural disaster.

“I’m fine,” you assured him, already ducking into the bedroom. You tugged open your dresser, pulling out fresh underwear, but when you turned back he was still hovering in the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets, watching closely.

“Gerard.”

“I just—” he shrugged helplessly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, “—you said you needed a pad, and like, I know how it works in theory, but I’ve never actually, y’know… witnessed the process.”

You raised a brow. “Witnessed the process?”

He winced. “That sounded creepy. I didn’t mean it like that.” He hovered anyway, fascinated and awkward but somehow still sweet about it. When you headed into the bathroom, he trailed after you like a duckling. You shot him a look over your shoulder, but he just shrugged, leaning against the doorframe.

“I mean, I grew up with a sister,” he said, like it was a defense. “I’ve seen pads in the house. But it was always this, like… mysterious girl thing that I wasn’t supposed to ask about.”

You tore the wrapper open with a snap, the adhesive crinkling as you smoothed it into place. 

You laughed, shaking your head, and brushed past him back toward the bedroom. He followed, of course, like he always did, watching silently as you tossed your sports bra off without taking off your shirt and pulled on a pair of soft pajama pants.

Gerard had seemingly already decided he was on a mission. He grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed and shook it out with dramatic flair.

“Lie down,” he ordered, surprisingly firm for someone who usually melted into a pile of limbs and mumbling.

You raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Lie down,” he repeated, pointing to the bed with mock sternness. “Nurse Gerard’s orders.”

You snorted but obeyed, crawling under the blanket. He tucked it around you carefully, smoothing it down along your sides like you were made of fragile porcelain.

“I'm gonna get you some Advil,” he muttered, already turning toward the door. “And water. Don’t move.”

“Gee, you don’t have to—”

He was already gone, thumping down the hall.

A minute later he reappeared, triumphant, with two Advil in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “For you, my queen,” he said dramatically, like he was presenting the finest jewels, and not ibuprofen.

You rolled your eyes but took them gratefully. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but I’m helpful.” He set the glass down on your nightstand and crawled beside you without hesitation. His arm wound instantly around your waist, his body curving to fit yours like he had been waiting for this exact assignment.

You sighed, sinking back into him. “Honestly… just hold me. That helps more than anything.”

“I can do that,” he murmured, already settling in. His hand slipped lower, resting warm and steady over your stomach. The effect was almost immediate. Between the Advil, the heat of his body, and the careful way his palm cupped your womb area, the cramps felt a little less sharp. What surprised you more was how your chest ached— how your hormones surged, how every nerve ending lit up with tenderness and want.

He wasn’t trying to be sexy, his breathing was steady against the back of your neck, his lips brushing there absentmindedly—but god, it was almost overwhelming. 

You caught yourself smiling into the pillow, a little dazed, as another wave of affection crashed through you.

“Thanks, Gee,” you whispered. “Love you.”

He squeezed you a little tighter, his voice soft and certain. “Always. I love you too.”

You drifted off to the sound of Gerard’s breathing, warm against the back of your neck. His hand stayed cupped over your stomach, and between the Advil and the comfort of his body heat, you finally gave in to sleep.

---

When you blinked awake again, the room was dimmer, afternoon light pooling soft through the blinds and rain gently pattering against your window. Gerard hadn’t moved. He was still wrapped around you, his cheek pressed against your hair, his hand still settled low and protective.

Something in your chest tugged hard. Maybe it was affection, or hormones, or some weird heady mix of both, but before you could stop yourself, you were shifting, turning in his arms. His lashes fluttered as you pressed your mouth to his, soft at first, then firmer when he groaned into it like he’d been dreaming of the moment.

Your hand slid up his chest, tugging him closer, and he responded instantly—palming at your waist, your hip, tugging until your bodies were flush. His other hand wandered upward almost clumsily, sliding over your ribs until it brushed across your breast.

You gasped against his mouth. The sound made him freeze.

“Shit—did I hurt you?” His voice was frantic, worried. He started to pull back, but you caught his wrist, holding him there.

“No—no, it’s not that.” Your cheeks warmed, but you forced yourself to meet his wide, hazel eyes. “It’s just… they get really sensitive around my period.”

For a second, he just stared at you, processing that. “Oh my God,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You mean—like—sensitive sensitive?”

You bit your lip, nodding. “Yeah. Like… every touch feels ten times stronger.”

He made a noise between a gasp and a laugh, giddy and reverent, and then he practically exploded, surging forward to kiss you again, messy and eager. His hand cupped your breast more deliberately this time, thumb brushing experimentally over your nipple, and when you whimpered into his mouth, his whole body shuddered.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, pulling back just enough to look at you like you’d hung the moon. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” His hand lingered, cupping your breast with all the reverence of someone holding a holy relic. His thumb brushed experimentally again, and when your breath hitched, his eyes went wide, pupils swallowing hazel.

“Can I—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. “Can I touch them some more? Please?”

The begging tone, soft and almost desperate, sent heat curling low in your stomach. You could never get over how much he wanted you, how unashamed he was in showing it.

“You’re such a boob guy. Like, you’re obsessed.” you teased, but you were already tugging his hand back against you.

He groaned softly, half in embarrassment, half in sheer relief, and leaned down to mouth at your chest through your shirt. You let him have it, let him worship you in the awkward, sloppy way only Gerard could manage, and the sound of him sighing into your skin almost unraveled you on its own.

After a while, he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breath came quick, his cheeks pink, and when he spoke again his voice was soft, almost shy.

“Can I… um. Can I take your pants off?” He shifted, fingers brushing tentatively at the drawstring on your pants. “And your underwear too?”

You raised a brow, curious. “Why?”

Color flooded his face instantly. He ducked his head, hair falling into his eyes, and stammered, “I—I just—I wanna see. Like… the blood. I know it’s weird, but—” He laughed nervously, fumbling for words. “It’s not gross to me. It’s… you. I think it’s fascinating.”

You stared at him for a beat, then let out a slow, amused hum. “You’re seriously telling me you want to see period blood?”

He winced at the bluntness but nodded anyway, eyes wide and pleading. “I just… yeah. I wanna see all of you. Even that.”

You couldn’t help the little laugh that bubbled out of you. “God, you’re so weird.”

“I know,” he said quickly, almost tripping over the words. 

Shaking your head, you brushed a hand through his hair and tugged gently. “You’re lucky I like weird.”

His whole face lit up, shy and eager all at once. 

His hands shook as he eased your underwear down, breath catching when he saw the smear of red on the pad. He didn’t recoil and didn’t even hesitate. Instead, his eyes went wide, lips parting.

“Whoa,” he whispered. His gaze flicked to your face, “Can I… is it okay if I touch? Or I can just look. I swear I’d be happy just—” He cut himself off with a shaky laugh, cheeks burning. “Just seeing you like this.”

Your chest ached at how earnest he was, how careful. And at the same time, your body throbbed with the raw sensitivity that always hit you during your period. You were already on edge, every nerve lit up, and the way he was staring at you made heat coil low in your stomach.

“You’re really into this, huh?” you teased, voice low.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I mean—I’ve heard stuff. Like that orgasms can help with cramps? And you’re already hurting and I just—” His words tumbled over each other, frantic, desperate. “I want to help, I want to make you feel good, I don’t care about the mess, I— fuck, sugar, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You laughed softly, both fond and aroused, reaching out to card your fingers through his messy hair. “You’re such a freak, you know that?”

He moaned at that—actually moaned—eyes fluttering shut for a second like the words had hit him somewhere deep.

“Go on then,” you murmured, tugging his hair just enough to make him whimper. “If you want it so bad, make me come.”

His whole body jolted, like you’d given him permission to breathe again. “Fuck, I—yeah, I want it, I want you—” His hands slid to your thighs, spreading you open with trembling reverence, and his voice cracked as he added, “God, you’re so fucking pretty like this.”

Gerard clumsily reached to tug your shirt up. The second your breasts were bare, he dove in, mouth open, cheek pressed against your skin, groaning as he buried himself between them.

“Fuck, sugar,” he panted, voice muffled against your chest. His hand wandered down, tentative, fingers circling over your clit instead of slipping inside.

The pressure was light, but with how hypersensitive you were, it was already enough to make your hips twitch.

You gasped, tugging hair. “Gee—”

He groaned, collapsing back against your chest for a moment before dragging his mouth over your nipple again, sloppy and desperate. His fingers kept moving over your clit, awkward at first, then more confident every time you gasped for him.

You yanked his hair to make him look at you. “Gerard.”

He blinked up at you, lips shiny, pupils huge.

“It’s okay,” you told him, voice steady despite the heat buzzing through your body. “If you wanna put them in. I know you do.”

He swallowed hard, a sound breaking in his throat like you’d just given him the permission he’d been secretly begging for. “Fuck—yeah. Yeah, I… I want it so bad.”

His fingers trembled as he slid lower, easing two of them inside of you with a careful push. 

He stared, transfixed, pulling back just enough to see the slick coating his hand, the streak of blood shining dark against his pale skin.

“Holy fuck,” he gasped, dazed. “You’re—oh my God, sugar, you’re bleeding on me.”

You huffed out a shaky laugh. “That was the point, sweet thing.” You tugged his hair when his mouth lingered too long against your chest, forcing his eyes back to yours. “But I bet you love it like the nasty little freak you are, don’t you?” Though your words were harsh, you didn’t truly mean it. The more time you spent with Gerard, the more you realized how into degradation he was (and it was something you were more than happy to indulge in). 

He whined, desperate. “Y-yeah—yours. Your freak.” His voice cracked on it, but he shoved his face right back between your breasts anyway. 

His hand worked between your legs, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit while his fingers curled inside you, stroking deep, deliberate. You jolted, the oversensitivity making your breath stutter, and he whimpered against your chest.

Every so often he’d pull back, lifting his hand to stare at it; your slick and blood smeared across his knuckles, sticky between his fingers. His pupils were blown wide, lips swollen and parted as he panted through it. “Jesus Christ, you’re—fuck, you’re perfect. Look at you, sugar, look at what you’re giving me.”

You gasped, rolling your hips into his hand, every nerve lit up from how sensitive you were. “Gee, oh God, don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he promised instantly, frantic and sincere. He ducked down again, mouthing at your nipple, sucking until you cried out, and his fingers pumped harder.

Your thighs shook around him, every nerve alight from the relentless mix of tenderness and filthy desperation.

“Gee—” you gasped, pulling his hair tight enough to make him moan. “I’m—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he begged, voice ragged. “Please, sugar, come on my hand, lemme feel you, let me see you—”

Your whole body shuddered as you came with a sharp cry, thighs clamping around his wrist as you came, wet and messy and overwhelming. He gasped with you, grinding his hips helplessly against the mattress, moaning into your chest like he was the one unraveling.

He was still trembling as he pulled his fingers out, staring at the wet red shine coating them. His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile. When his eyes met yours again, they were wild, desperate.

“Sugar,” His voice cracked. “Can I… fuck, can I cum? Please? Please let me—”

The sheer desperation in his tone made heat curl in your stomach again. You smirked, tugging gently at his hair. “You begging, Gee?”

“Yes,” he gasped without hesitation, eyes glassy. “I need it, I can’t—fuck, please.”

“Go ahead,” you murmured, too wrung out to tease him much more.

He moaned, almost collapsing with relief, fumbling his pants and boxers down around his hips. His cock sprang free, flushed and leaking, and he wrapped his messy, blood-slick fingers around it without hesitation.

“Fuck—” His head fell back, curls sticking to his damp forehead as he pumped himself fast, frantic. His other hand clutched at your thigh, smearing crimson across your skin as he jerked above you, eyes flicking down again and again to where you lay sticky and wrecked.

“You’re perfect,” he gasped, voice breaking. He choked on a groan, hips jerking forward as hot spurts of cum streaked across your stomach. The sight made him moan again, high and raw, like it had undone him completely.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was his ragged breathing. Then, slowly, he sagged forward, pressing his sweaty forehead against your shoulder. 

For just a moment, through your haze, you swore you saw him lift his bloodied fingers to his mouth, tongue darting out, a quick lick before he ducked his head like he thought you wouldn’t notice.

You were too floaty to call him on it, too warm and wrung out to do more than huff a hazy laugh. “Gee…”

You let him fuss over you. He disappeared for a moment, then returned with a warm washcloth, cleaning you gently, carefully, murmuring soft apologies even though you hadn’t complained once. When he was done, he helped ease your underwear back up, his hands tender in contrast to how frantic they’d been minutes earlier.

“There,” he whispered, tucking you back under the blanket, smoothing your hair from your face. His eyes were still dark, still hungry, but layered with something softer now. “All taken care of.”

You hummed, letting your eyes drift shut again, and felt him curl in beside you. The whole thing was so stupidly sweet it made your chest ache.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 4 of she’s an american beauty, i’m an american psycho (hostage ‘verse)