ᗷIᑎᑕᕼI ᗪᗩ ᐯIᑎᑕI

You were spiraling. The newly landed office job paid your ridiculously high New York rent—but in return, it ate your soul in mouthfuls. Your ex’s last text “I think we’re better off as friends” still sat unopened in a chat you couldn’t get yourself to delete. All your friends were suddenly too adult, grad school, engagements, babies on the way, nobody noticed how you were drowning.

It was a harsh December night, the kind where snow didn’t fall but attacked sideways. You walked with no destination, toes frozen in your boots, headphones blasting My Chemical Romance because teenage you could never let Gerard go and you needed him to scream “I’m Not Okay” for the both of you.

Then you saw it: half-covered in snow, a faded sidewalk sign you swore had been there since high school. Your favorite comic shop, still breathing. The window glowed like an inviting sun, cadmium yellow flickering against the storm. You shoved the door open just to feel something warmer than the biting cold and your thoughts.

The bell gave an enthusiastic jingle. Heat wrapped around you, and that familiar smell of paper felt instantly calming. You pulled the headphones down, music fading into the hum of radiators and blinking tube lights.

And then you saw him.

Between the new-release racks, leather jacket, fingers flipping through indie horror issues. Older now, late thirties? Forty?—but the years had been kind in all ways possible. Hair still thick, black strands falling over one eye. Soft jaw shadowed with two-day stubble. Still unfairly, stupidly, beautiful.

He looked up. Recognition hit him immediately.

You were his friend’s niece. From that one dinner party celebrating your uncle’s comic release a few years ago, when you were just eighteen and pretending you weren’t watching Gerard watch you.

Flashback hit you hard: Late October, wine and bourbon swirling in crystal glasses, easy-listening jazz flooding the room, voices overlapping in a low, restless chatter. Your uncle deep in a comic monologue, inking techniques, panel set-up, while Gerard sat next to you on the couch. He’d asked you what your favorite book was, you’d answered without stuttering, which was a pure miracle. His thigh pressed against yours, and neither of you moved. The contact burned for hours. When you were showing him books on your phone, he’d leaned in too close, breath warm against your ear, and said, “Good taste, kid,” voice low, rough.

Kid. Even then the word sounded like a lie.

He shut the comic with a soft clap. Your name left his mouth like a question.

“Wow,” he said, voice lighter than you remembered, “it’s… really good to see you again.”

His arm lifted, hand sliding to the back of his neck, fingers scratching at the hairs there. Classic Gerard deflection, you remembered it from the dinner party, the way he’d done the same thing every time your uncle teased him about deadlines. Only now the motion pulled his shirt above the soft pudge of his stomach, and you were too old to pretend you weren’t staring.

You looked older now, but your cheeks were still soft with lingering baby fat. No coat, still irresponsibly reckless, like a child who never quite learned. And the skirts… barely covering your ass, far too short for someone supposed to be an adult. His gaze lingered there for a second, then jerked away like it hurt. You watched his throat work, a hard swallow.

He tried small talk. Asked about your uncle, about the job you hated, voice too bright. You answered in monotone syllables, eyes glassy, throat thickening.

Then the words choked out of you, raw and ugly. “I’m just really fucking lonely tonight.”

Silence stretched between you. His fingers started drumming on the wire rack, tap, tap, tap, same anxious rhythm from the kitchen counter when your aunt had asked if he was seeing anyone. The sound frayed at your nerves.

He looked back at the comics like the covers might save him. “You shouldn’t be walking around this late by yourself,” he muttered.

You laughed, and it came out bitter. “Could I buy you a drink?” The question hung thickly in the air. “Just one. I don’t want to go home yet.”

You saw the war on his face in real time. Jaw clenching so tight you were worried for the enamel on his teeth. Knuckles whitening where he gripped the rack. He knew, God, he knew exactly how fucked up this would be. You were his friend’s niece. You’d been eighteen last time, barely legal, and he’d called you a kid like a warning to himself. Four years wasn’t nearly enough distance.

His eyes flicked to the door. To the employee half-asleep behind the counter. The snow piling up outside. Anywhere but you.

You waited for the no. Waited for the gentle rejection, the responsible-adult speech, the reminder that some lines can’t be crossed.

Instead he exhaled, shaky, like a man surrendering to gravity.

“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse, clearing his throat before adding, “One drink.”

He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over your shoulders before you could protest. It smelled like him. Cigarettes and musky vanilla and his sweat underneath. It swallowed you whole, his fingertips brushed your skin when he let go, accidental, deliberate, impossible to tell.

He held the door open, bell jingling again as you stepped into the snow, your footprints erased almost as quickly as you made them.

You slipped straight into a bar two blocks away, shutting the storm out behind you. Inside smelled like spilled gin and old cigarettes soaked into wood. The Smiths leaked from the jukebox, while Christmas lights left up since the last decade blinked half-heartedly above the bar.

You slid into the same side of the cracked leather booth to hear him better because “it was crowded”, it was easier than confessing you wanted to be close enough to feel his heat. The place was nearly empty. Neither of you mentioned it.

Drinks. Whiskey for him, vodka-cranberry for you because it felt less juvenile than a beer. Second round arrived without question. Third came with a side of guilt.

Conversation started safe, a continuation of the small-talk at the comic shop, but the alcohol loosened you up. You told him how you used to fill your sketchbooks with your own characters in high-school, that you still kept them in a box under your bed. He leaned in, elbows on the sticky table, eyes bright.

“Show me sometime,” he said, and it sounded like a vow.

Under the table your knee brushed his. He flinched, a sharp inhale through his teeth, but didn’t shift away. The next time he let it happen without a reaction. The third time his leg pressed back, conscious, warm denim against sheer tights, and the contact made your stomach flip.

“You’re all grown up now,” he said at some point, voice rough. Then he kept repeating it throughout the conversation, like he was trying to convince himself it made things okay.

The vodka made you brave or stupid. You caught yourself saying, “I had the biggest crush on you when I was eighteen,” and then wanted to sink through the floor.

He laughed, but it came out restrained. Rubbed both his hands over his face like he could scrub the want off. “Jesus. I noticed,” he muttered into his palms. “At the dinner. Your uncle was right there and I still… Good grief, I’m going to hell.”

The jukebox clicked.

You swallowed the last of your drink, ice cube clinking. “Did you want to kiss me that night?” Your voice came out smaller than intended, almost lost in the music.

He stared at the worn tabletop for so long you thought he’d never answer. A muscle twitched in his jaw. Fingers never letting go of the empty glass in his hand.

“Every fucking second,” he said finally, so quietly you felt it more than you heard it. Then louder, “I counted the minutes until I could leave. Went home and hated myself for it.”

His eyes met yours, raw, vulnerable. The Christmas lights reflecting red and green in them.

Your heart was hammering against your chest. His hand found your leg underneath the table, fingers brushing your skin until goosebumps pricked beneath. Testing. Asking.

You sat there like that for a while. Empty glasses sweating rings onto the table. His hand was firm now, and moved higher on your thigh without either of you acknowledging it. You stared at the same nothing he did, deathly afraid of ruining the moment.

Eventually, the bartender flicked the lights, once, twice, to give you a hint. Closing. Gerard paid, neither of you spoke, he just tucked you in his jacket again.

Outside, the wind was merciless, flinging snow like broken glass. You gasped at the first gust, he swore under his breath and pulled you in without asking, arm sliding around your waist, tucking you against his side. You walked pressed together down the empty street in silence, your hip against his.

Your building appeared too soon. The porch light had been busted for weeks, the bulb flickering once before giving up, leaving you in dim orange from the streetlights. Snowflakes caught in his lashes.

He tried to be decent.

“I should—“ he started, taking a step back, hands already in his pockets like cuffs.

You caught the sleeve of his sweater before he could back up completely. “Please don’t leave me alone tonight.”

His breath fogged. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I do.” Your fingers tightened in the wool. “I’m asking you.”

Conflict flickered on his face, guilt, hunger, surrender. He looked wrecked, hazel eyes darkened, mouth trembling. Ice melted on his cheekbones.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. More like punishment for the mutual pining, hard, desperate. His hands came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing your frozen cheeks while his tongue slid inside your mouth like he was starving for it. You tasted whiskey and a trace of the mint gum he’d been nervously chewing all the way from the bar. A groan escaped his throat as he pinned you against your door, body flush to yours.

He pulled back an inch, still breathing the same air as you, whispering, “Tell me to go.”

You fumbled your keys with numb fingers and pushed the door open.

“Come inside,” you said it like a demand not an invitation.

He followed.

The door to your apartment clicked shut behind you and the winter-storm vanished, replaced by the low amber light of fairy lights strung crookedly above the windows. The walls were covered in band posters peeling at the corners, your roommate’s thrifted armchair in the corner, next to a stack of half-finished canvases. Empty White Claw cans spread out like decoration on your coffee table. It smelled faintly of acrylic paint, vanilla candles, and the weed your roommate swore she’d stop smoking inside.

Gerard stopped dead on the welcome mat, snow melting off his boots in little puddles. His eyes moved over everything like he was counting his sins, the frayed My Chemical Romance poster you’d had since you were sixteen, the string of polaroids pinned above the TV—you in cat ears on Halloween, your High School graduation that looked way too recent. He suddenly felt painfully older in this space that screamed early twenties chaos.

“Oh my god,” he breathed, barely audible. “I’m too old for this room.”

You didn’t let him ponder. You grabbed his cold hand and pulled him past the common area, past the leaning tower of your roommate’s half-finished sculptures, past the kitchen counter littered with ramen packs and overdue library books. He followed, feet dragging like he was walking to his own execution.

Your bedroom wasn’t any more grown-up. Unmade bed, more fairy lights, clothes scattered across the floor like it had purpose. You tugged him inside and shut the door with your hip.

“We shouldn’t,” he said, the second the handle clicked. Traitorous eyes already on your mouth.

You reached for the hem of his knit sweater, dark charcoal, and pulled it up. He lifted his arms automatically, let you strip it off him, even with a new protest rolling of his tongue.

“We shouldn’t,” he repeated, voice softer now, like he didn’t believe himself anymore.

His t-shirt clung to his soft frame. You could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way his hands hovered in the air like he couldn’t trust them anywhere near you.

You stepped closer, close enough that you could feel how his hot breath stuttered against your cheek. Your fingers found the edge of his belt, just resting there.

“Tell me to stop then,” you whispered.

He didn’t.

Instead he made this broken sound, surrendered and relieved, and kissed you again, slower this time, letting himself indulge in you. His hands finally landed on your waist, slipping under the hem of your shirt, calloused and careful and shaking. You dragged the shirt off over your head, revealing your pale blue lace bralette, nipples pressing visibly against it.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, pure defeat.

He sunk to his knees, gazing up at you through unfairly long lashes, mouth parted. His palms slid to your hips, easing your skirt and tights down your legs—slow, like every part of this was worship.

“So fucking young,” he rasped, voice breaking. “So fucking beautiful.”

He pressed his face between your legs, mouthing you through the thin cotton of your panties. Kissing, biting, sucking. His tongue pushed inside you through fabric, nose rubbing your clit. The fabric grew soaked in seconds, from you, from him. He groaned like a needy boy, hips jerking helplessly as he palmed himself through denim.

You fisted his hair, thighs trembling. He pulled back suddenly, face flushed, guiding you up on the bed instead. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties and peeled the ruined underwear down, tossing it aside.

The fairy lights turned your soft skin rose-gold, cunt glistening. He stood by the end of the bed and stared, pupils blown wide, like he was watching himself commit a crime.

“I feel like a creep,” he whispered, “but I don’t care. I need this, I need you so fucking bad it hurts.”

Something in him snapped, like he finally broke free from his leash.

He surged forward, mouth crashing onto yours. One big hand gathered your wrists, pinning them gently but firmly into the fluffy pillows above your head. The other shoved your thigh up and wide, fingers digging hard enough to leave bruises in the morning. He shoved his jeans down just enough, lined up and pushed in—one long, devastating thrust that burned in the best way possible.

You cried out, which was swallowed by another kiss, hips already pistoning, frantic and greedy. The cheap bed-frame creaked in self-pity. He fucked you like it was the last time he’d ever get to touch anyone. 

He let your wrists go and clamped his hands over your hips instead, yanking you down to meet every brutal stroke. The feeling was euphoric, the head of his cock hitting so deep inside you that made your spine arch hard enough to hurt.

“Touch yourself,” he pleaded against your mouth. “Want to feel you come around me, sugar, please—“

You were already halfway there. Your hand flew between your bodies, fingers slipping over your swollen clit in tight, desperate circles. The extra sensation sharpened everything. You could hear how wet everything was, feel the way he twitched inside you every time your walls fluttered.

“Fuck, there you go—“ he groaned, watching your face contort in pleasure. “Just like that, so pretty baby, come on—“

It hit you sudden and deafening, legs locking around his waist, head thrown back as you came with a broken sob. Your cunt clenched around him and he lost it completely; hips stuttering, rhythm gone to hell. He buried his face in your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, and came with a choked, “baby, baby—oh god—baby” like the word was the only thing holding him together.

His whole body slumped on top of you, shaking and heavy, arms locking around you so tight you could barely breathe. You clung to his sweaty t-shirt, aftershocks still sparking through you.

He didn’t move for a long time, just breathed you in, lips brushing your collarbone, like he could postpone reality if he didn’t let go yet.

But it hit anyway.

He pulled out carefully, like he could minimize the damage of what had happened. Tucked himself back into his jeans, zipped up and sat at the edge of your bed, head resting in his hands. The fairy lights painted soft across the slope of his back, little tremors still running through him.

You curled against his back, knees to your chest, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades. Your fingers traced the bone of his shoulders, the warmth of his skin under the thin fabric.

“This can’t happen again,” he said, voice quiet, hoarse, like the words had forced their way out.

You didn’t argue. Just rested your head against his spine and whispered, “I know.”

He turned, cupped your face in both hands and kissed you. Soft, final. The kind of kiss that says thank you and goodbye in the same press.

He stood, buckled his belt in silence, pulled the woolen sweater over his head. Every movement felt heavy, like he was dragging time. At your bedroom door he paused and glanced back. His eyes were dull, jaw clenched. Then he left without a word.

You lay there for a few minutes, maybe less, tangled in sheets that still smelled like him—smoke and sweat and something you already missed. You grabbed a blanket, wrapped it over your shoulders and stumbled to the window. Cold air stung your skin as you cracked it open, snowflakes drifting in with the wind.

“Gerard!” you shouted into the night, voice cracking over the howl.

He was halfway down the block, leather jacket already glittered white, boots leaving prints in the fresh powder. He stopped dead, shoulders tensing, head turning like a wolf catching a scent.

You leaned further out the window, blanket slipping off your shoulder.

“Will you stay the night?”

It came out smaller than you intended, almost lost in the wind.

He turned fully. For a long second he just stared up at you, snow landing on his lashes, mouth parted like he’d forgotten how to speak. Then he dropped his gaze, rubbed a rough hand over his face, muttering something to himself you couldn’t hear.

A car drove past, tires crunching salt. He didn’t move.

You held your breath.

Then finally. He shook his head at himself in surrender, and started walking back, boots stomping through the snow.

You heard the buzzer a second later, harsh and electric.

When the door opened downstairs, you were already outside your door, blanket clutched around you.

He came back up the stairs, snow clinging to his hair, cheeks red from cold. He flashed a sheepish half-smile, shrugged, and muttered, “Too damn cold to be noble tonight.” You snorted, grabbed his freezing hand, and tugged him toward the bedroom.

The cigarette smoke hit your face like realization. 

You shouldn’t have been here. Not alone, anyway. Gerard was supposed to pick up Mikey, your best friend who had dragged you to some forgettable house party just so he could catch a glimpse of his crush. You weren’t even sure she’d looked at him once. But he kept looming in the shadows, thinking his silent presence five feet away would be enough for her to get the memo. He told you to wait in the car, said he’d be out any minute. 

Ten of those minutes later and he still wasn’t here, and the silence between you and Gerard had already started to feel heavy. 

It would’ve been fine if you could manage small talk, but you and Gerard could never small-talk. Your throat tightened. The smoke he half-heartedly tried to blow out the tiny crack in the window only made it worse. His eyes drifted lazily to your thighs in the rearview mirror, where your fingers kept fidgeting with the fraying hem of your shirt. And suddenly you couldn’t stop thinking about that time he’d been between them, how his hips had confidently spread you open, the way his lips had tenderly shushed the sounds you made against your jaw. 

It was supposed to stay a secret. It could never happen again. He was older, he had a real job, and you were just his little brother’s pathetic friend who still stuttered every time he emerged from the basement. He’d give you that knowing little smirk, brush the raven strands of hair off his forehead, but never say a word. You’d just tip-toe after Mikey as close as you could, trying to hide that burning red on your face.

The passenger door yanked open. Mikey’s lanky body slumped into the seat, head dropping heavily onto Gerard’s shoulder.

“Oh my god, Mikey.” Gerard’s voice was pure older-brother disappointment. “You’re wasted, aren’t you?”

Mikey only mumbled something unintelligible, glasses crooked, long fingers curling into the soft fabric of Gerard’s hoodie.

“Alright, alright, alright…” Gerard’s voice softened as he shifted into reverse. His body twisted so he could look out the back window, gaze carefully fixed above your head, and for a second the streetlights caught the green in his hazel eyes. Your lungs forgot how to work.

The drive to their house was quiet except for Mikey’s occasional soft snore and the low hum of the radio. Gerard kept one hand on the wheel and the other gently steadying his brother’s head every time it threatened to drop too far. You sat in the back, trying not to stare at the curve of Gerard’s pale neck, or the way his slender fingers looked against Mikey’s hair.

When they pulled into the driveway of the little brick house you knew almost as well as your own, Gerard killed the engine and turned.

“Stay put,” he said, soft but firm. “I’ll just get him inside.”

You nodded. Watched through the open passenger door as Gerard half-carried, half-guided Mikey up the front steps. The porch light painted them both in warm yellow. Mikey leaned heavily into his brother, still mumbling. Gerard’s voice floated back to you in the quiet night, low and patient.

“Yeah, I know, Mikes. Bedtime. C’mon.”

A few minutes later the front door clicked shut and Gerard reappeared, wiping his hands on his jeans like he’d just finished a chore. He slid back into the driver’s seat, glanced at the empty passenger side, then twisted to look at you in the back.

“C’mon, don’t sit back there alone like a lost kid,” he said. “Come up front.”

You hesitated only a second before climbing out and around. It would be awkward to refuse. The passenger seat still held some warmth and the faint smell of the cologne Mikey never usually wore. When you settled in, Gerard didn’t start the car right away. He just looked at you for a long moment, a fresh cigarette burning low between his fingers.

“You good?” he asked.

You nodded, even though your pulse was spiked through the roof.

He took one last drag, cracked the window wider, and flicked the cigarette out onto the pavement. The car filled with the leftover smell of smoke and the faint detergent scent from his hoodie, same as Mikey’s. He started the engine again, pulled out of the driveway, and headed toward your neighborhood.

For the first few blocks neither of you spoke. The streetlights kept sliding over his face in intervals, cheekbone, jaw, the shine of his dark hair. Your thighs felt too warm against the seat. You kept your hands carefully folded in your lap.

Gerard’s voice finally broke the silence, quieter than before.

“You didn’t have to wait for him all night, y’know. You could’ve texted me. I would’ve come get you earlier.”

You shrugged, eyes on the road. “It was fine.”

He made a soft sound that resembled a laugh. “Was it?”

You felt his glance more than you saw it. The same glance that had found your thighs earlier. The same glance that remembered exactly what your skin tasted like.

The tension didn’t arrive all at once. It seeped in slowly, just like smoke. Thin at first, then thicker, impossible to ignore. Every time the car rounded a corner your knees fell closer to the center console. Every time he shifted gears his knuckles nearly grazed your leg. Neither of you moved away.

By the time he turned onto your street the air between you felt thicker than the cigarette smoke ever had.

He pulled up in front of your house but left the engine running, headlights creating paths of light across the dark lawn. For a second he just sat there, hands still on the wheel, staring straight ahead while softly chewing on his bottom lip.

Then he turned his head.

“You gonna invite me in,” he asked carefully, like he was just testing the words on his tongue, “or am I just droppin’ you off?”

The question hung there, dangerous, and you knew it was in your hands to catch it. The secret you both kept pretending didn’t exist waited for you to expose it.

“Y-yeah. I’m inviting you in.” Your voice barely carried the words.

Gerard killed the engine immediately. The sudden quiet somehow felt louder than the radio. He didn’t answer right away, just looked at you for a long second, like he was giving you one last chance to take it back. When you didn’t, he nodded once, almost to himself and stepped out of the car.

You fumbled with your keys on the front porch. Your hands just wouldn’t stop shaking. Gerard stood a careful step behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him but far enough that you could still breathe. The porch light flickered. Somewhere down the street a dog barked once and then everything went quiet again.

Inside, the house was dark. You stepped out of your shoes by the door. Gerard did the same, quiet, like he was trying not to wake anyone even though your parents were out of town. You led the way down the short hall to your bedroom without turning on any lights. Soft amber light from the streetlamp outside flowed in through the half-open blinds.

Gerard closed the door behind you with a soft click.

For a moment you just stood there at the foot of the bed, arms crossed over your chest. A branch softly scratched the windowpane. He stayed by the door, one hand still on the handle, the other shoved into the pocket of his jeans. The air felt so thick and charged, almost guilty.

“I shouldn’t be in here,” he said finally, voice cracking just a little. “We both know that.”

“I know.”

“Mikey-”

“I know.”

He exhaled through his nose, a short frustrated sound. Then he crossed the room and stopped right in front of you. Close enough that you had to tip your head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that you caught the coffee on his breath.

“It’s a bad idea,” he murmured, one hand coming up slowly, like he was still deciding, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

The touch was almost unbearably gentle. Your breath caught. His fingers lingered at the side of your neck, thumb tracing the edge of your jaw.

“Fuck,” it came out like a breath. “Y’know that last time… it could never be a one-time thing. God knows I tried.”

The confession cracked something in your chest open. You reached up, hands clumsily fisting in the front of his hoodie, and pulled him down. The kiss started soft, like you were scared it might electrify you. Then his mouth opened against yours and it deepened immediately. He moaned softly into your mouth, walking you backward until the back of your knees hit the mattress and you sat down hard. He followed, one knee between your thighs, still kissing you like he’d been starving for your taste.

His hands were everywhere and nowhere at once, sliding under your shirt, feeling the warm skin of your waist. Yours were moving just as aimlessly, tugging at his hoodie until he helped you yank it over his head and tossed it somewhere behind him. The t-shirt underneath came next. You both laughed breathless and shaky when the fabric got stuck under his chin.

“Sorry,” he whispered against your mouth, smiling for a second before the smile faded into something hungrier and more decisive.

His weight settled over you firmer now, legs tangled. But he still paused every few seconds to look at your face. His hand trembled when it finally slipped under your bra and found your nipple with the gentlest touch. He kissed your jaw, the sensitive skin behind your ear, and the pool of heat in your belly drifted lower.

“Tell me you want more,” he said against your skin, voice rough as his fingers settled on the hem of your jeans. “Tell me, pretty baby.”

You exhaled, fingers sliding into his hair, holding him closer.

“I want more.”

A low moan escaped his mouth, a sound of relief and surrender all at once, and then he kissed you harder, his hand tugging denim and cotton just above your knees. Instinctively, your thighs spread as far as the fabric would let them, and finally those angelic fingers made contact with your most sensitive spot. Gathering slickness from your slit and touching your clit with deliberate, teasing circles. Your back arched. Eyes squeezing shut. His touch was incomparable to anything else, and the soft kisses he left along your collarbone sent shivers down your spine.

“I know, baby… I know,” he murmured softly between pecks, fingers still moving agonizingly slow. You were already trembling under him, hips twitching up for more pressure he deliberately refused to give. A quiet, almost smug little huff of breath left him when he felt how wet you were.

“Fuck, look at you,” he said, voice soft like velvet against your skin. “Been thinking about this exact thing for months. Tryin’ to be good. Tryin’ to stay away.” His fingers pressed a little firmer, just once, and your whole body jerked. He smirked against your throat. “Doesn’t look like you wanted me to be good either.”

You made a helpless sound that only made the smirk widen. He finally pulled his hand away and the sudden loss made you whimper. Gerard sat back just enough to shove his own jeans and boxers down his legs, kicking them off the edge of the bed in one clumsy motion. When he came back over you he dragged your jeans the rest of the way off, finally freeing your thighs. You wrung your shirt off over your head and impatiently tore your bra off. He caught your eagerness with a sparkle in his eye.

Then he settled between your legs, the hard length of him pressing against your inner thigh. He didn’t rush. Instead he reached down, dug into the pocket of the jeans he’d just kicked off, and pulled out a condom from his wallet. He tore it open with his teeth, rolled it on quickly, then propped himself back up on one forearm. 

He used his other hand to guide himself through your lips, coating himself in the slick he’d already coaxed out of you. The sudden pressure against your entrance made you hold your breath.

“You sure?” he asked, but the question didn’t sound very uncertain. It sounded like a challenge, like he already knew the answer and just wanted to hear you say it while he was this close. “’Cause once I’m inside you again, I won’t be able to stop.”

“Yes–please—“

And that was all he needed. He pushed in slow at first, letting the stretch burn in the best way, his eyes locked on yours the whole time. A low, surrendered groan left him when he bottomed out, hips flush against yours. For a moment he just stayed there buried deep, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours.

“God, you feel even better than I remembered,” he muttered, hands coming up to cradle the side of your face. “So fuckin’ tight. So wet for me. My little baby.”

He started moving, deep rolls of his hips that made your bedframe creak and forced soft sounds from your throat. Every thrust was controlled, almost lazy, like he was taking his time proving a point. Proving how you were made for him. 

When your legs wrapped around his waist he made a pleased noise and shifted the angle, hips snapping harder.

“There it is,” he breathed, watching your face contort in pleasure. “That’s the spot, isn’t it? Yeah… I remember.” His voice dropped into something darker, almost teasing. “Missed this. Missed the way you look when you’re tryin’ not to make noise. Don’t. I wanna hear you.”

He kept that pace, confident and a little arrogant, like he’d known exactly how this would go the second you invited him inside the house. But every so often his rhythm would stutter, and he’d bury his face in your neck with a quieter, softer moan, as if you undid him too. As if you were the one in control. Then the cocky smile would come back, and he’d thrust deeper, chasing the next cry out of you like every little noise you made belonged to him.

Your mind slipped back to the first time, the way he’d looked at you in the dark of that guest room, like he was already regretting it but couldn’t stop himself anyway. How quiet you’d both been, terrified of the thin walls and of Mikey sleeping just down the hall. You’d bitten your lip raw trying not to make a sound while he moved inside you like he was defiling something holy. Afterward he’d kissed your forehead once, soft and almost apologetic, and you’d never spoken of it again. You’d spent months pretending it hadn’t happened, pretending the way your stomach flipped every time he walked into a room was just common nerves.

Now there was no point in pretending.

Your hands slid up his back, feeling the shift of his muscles under clammy skin, and the thought hit you hard, you’d never stopped wanting this. Not for a single day.

Gerard must’ve felt the change in you. His rhythm slowed for a second, then deepened into something more urgent. The cockiness in his voice melted into something rawer.

“You feel that?” he murmured against your cheek, breath hot and heavy. “How good you take me? Fuck… I’ve thought about this so much. Every time you looked like you were scared I’d remember.” He thrust harder, chasing the tight pulse starting to build around him. “I remember everything.”

Your eyes stung. You turned your face into the crook of his neck so he wouldn’t see, but he noticed, holding you closer, one hand sliding to cradle your head while the other gripped your hip. The guilt was still there. Some distant part of you still insisted it was wrong. He’s Mikey’s brother. You’re not supposed to have this. But the rest of you was so gone, drowning in the sheer pleasure, in the way he filled you so completely there was no way this couldn’t be right.

Your orgasm built slowly at first, then all at once. Tight, overwhelming, euphoric. Your back arched hard, eyes squeezed shut, a broken sound tearing from your throat as you clenched around him. Gerard groaned, hips stuttering.

“That’s it, c’mon, baby, let me feel it–” His voice cracked on the last word, his own release washing over him with short, desperate thrusts. You felt every pulse of him, claiming you, while your body still trembled with aftershocks.

You didn’t move. The only sounds left were your heaving breaths, the faint creak of branches still grinding against the window. After a moment Gerard carefully pulled out, tied off the condom, and dropped it somewhere off the side of the bed before settling back over you. His forehead pressed to yours again, hand cradled in your hair. When he finally spoke, there was no edge at all, only soft vulnerability.

“I never wanted it to be a one-time thing, y’know,” he whispered. “Not really.”