˗ˏˋ g´ˎ˗

the paramour mansion feels like a tomb tonight. a month of living in this sprawling, gothic monstrosity has done nothing to dull its oppressive atmosphere, and tonight, with the heat completely dead, it’s worse than ever.

every shadow seems to writhe at the corner of your eye, every creak of the settling wood sounds like a footstep on the stairs just below you. and to top it all off, the bane of your existence, gerard way, has been struck down by a plague of biblical proportions, at least according to his dramatics.

his cold has stalled recording, making him even more insufferable than his baseline level of artistic torment.

so when frank, with that shit eating grin of his, cheerfully suggests you be the one to deliver soup to the invalid, you genuinely see red. the sheer fucking audacity.

you and gerard operate on a frequency of friction- a constant push and pull of insults and eye rolls that is somehow the bedrock of your creative chemistry. the last thing you need is to play nurse to your favorite sparring partner.

but the cold has sapped your will to fight. a deep, bone chilling cold that your thickest sweatshirt can’t even begin to combat. so you just roll your eyes, snatch the steaming bowl from ray’s hands, and start the dreaded ascent.

the long, creaky staircase is a horror movie set piece in its own right. you hug the wall, the ceramic bowl of soup scalding your clammy fingers, its warmth a cruel tease against the pervasive chill of the house. your breath plumes in the air, visible even in the dim light.

you can practically feel the mansion’s dead eyes on you as you scurry down the hallway, your footsteps swallowed by the thick, rotting carpets. you reach his door and knock, the sound barely a whisper against the heavy wood.

a few beats of silence, then his voice, a low, gravelly hum that vibrates right through the floorboards and up your spine. “come in.”

you push the door open, the hinges groaning in protest. he’s a mess of pale limbs and tangled sheets in the massive bed, his short platinum hair sticking up in every conceivable direction. he squints against the light, his face drawn and flushed with fever, a pout on his chapped lips that’s almost… endearing. almost. he clearly hasn’t been expecting you.

“fuck are you doin’ here?” he rasps, his voice stripped of its usual sharp edge, leaving only raw, hoarse confusion.

you place the bowl on the cluttered nightstand, the clatter seeming too loud in the quiet room. “frank’s idea,” you sigh, crossing your arms over your chest in a futile attempt to preserve body heat. “he seems to think i’m your personal fucking servant now.”

a ghost of a smile touches gerard’s lips. he shifts, propping himself up against the headboard, the movement slow and pained. “he’s got a point. you do look good in an apron.” his eyes, glassy from fever, still manage to hold that familiar, challenging spark as they rake over you. “or, y’know, that sweatshirt. very… practical.”

“fuck off, gerard. i’m freezing my ass off in this haunted icebox, and the last thing i need is your commentary.” you turn to leave, your hand on the doorknob. “eat your soup before it gets cold. not that you’d be able to tell the difference in this arctic tundra.”

“wait.”

you pause, your back still to him, shivering violently as a particularly nasty draft seems to slither under the door.

“you’re cold,” he states. it isn’t a question.

you sigh, rolling your eyes into the back of your skull. “no shit, sherlock. the mansion’s heating system decided to retire to florida without telling anyone.”

you hear the rustle of sheets, a soft sigh. “get in.”

your hand freezes on the doorknob. you slowly turn your head, certain you’ve misheard, that the fever has finally rotted his brain. “what?”

he’s patting the empty space beside him, a lazy, confident gesture. the covers are pooled around his waist, revealing the sharp lines of his hips and the pale, soft expanse of his chest.

his pretty eyes, fever bright and dark, crinkle at the corners. “the bed. it’s warm jus’ for you. get in.” he smirks, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. “i won’t bite. unless you ask me to.”

heat floods your cheeks, a stark contrast to the icy chill in your limbs. this is a trap. it has to be. a new, twisted form of torture designed to make your life miserable. but the thought of that warm space, of a reprieve from the relentless cold, is overwhelmingly tempting.

you let out a long, put upon sigh, trying to project an air of utter annoyance that you’re far from feeling. “fine,” you bite out, stomping over to the bed. “but if you so much as breathe on me, i’m throwing this soup at your head.”

he just chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that is more of a vibration than a laugh, and effortlessly lifts the duvet. you slide in, keeping as much distance as humanly possible, your body rigid. the moment the heavy warmth of the blankets settles over you, a blissful, almost painful relief washes through you.

gerard shifts, his arm brushing against yours as he pulls the covers up over both of you, the casual intimacy of the gesture sending a jolt straight through you. you’re trapped. in a warm bed. with gerard.

the silence that follows is heavy, thick with the sound of your own frantic heartbeat and the faint whistle of wind against the windowpanes. you lie there, a rigid statue of feigned indifference, acutely aware of every single place the air separates your body from his.

it’s an unbearable chasm of cold. the warmth radiating from him is a siren’s call, a beacon in the frozen gloom of the room. you tell yourself it’s just a primal, biological need for heat. that’s all this is.

“so,” he begins, his voice a low, intimate murmur that seems to wrap around you. “you gonna lie there all night pretending you’re not about t’turn into a human icicle, or are y’gonna admit i was right?”

your jaw tightens. “about what, exactly? your delusions of grandeur? because i’m not seeing the upside here.”

“the upside,” he shifts, and the movement sends a new wave of heat rolling over you, “is that i’m a fuckin’ furnace, and you’re about t’lose a toe to frostbite. stop fighting it.”

“i’m not fighting anything,” you scoff, but it’s a weak protest. you can feel the tension in your own shoulders, the way your muscles are locked against the shivers that want to wrack your body.

you inch closer. just a fraction. it’s a shameful, desperate movement you try to pass off as an accidental shift. the fabric of your sweatpants brush against his leg, and you hiss. the material is thin, and beneath it, you can feel the unmistakable, smooth texture of skin and the elastic of a waistband. he’s not wearing pants. he’s only in his briefs.

your head snaps toward him, and in the faint moonlight filtering through the grimy window, you can see the lopsided, triumphant grin that spreads across his face. it’s devastatingly handsome, a slash of white in the shadows, and a direct, electric jolt shoots straight to your clit, so intense it's terrifying.

“what’s the matter, honey?” he teases, the term of endearment a silky weapon. “find somethin’ you like?”

“fuck you,” you whisper, but it has no heat. it’s just a breathy, flustered mess of a sound. you’ve always known he was attractive- in that annoying, textbook, symmetrical face way- but his personality, that constant arrogant posturing, always ruined it.

but this? this fever dazed, softer, confident version of him is chipping away at your defenses with terrifying efficiency. he’s lowering all your rationality, and your desperate need for warmth is a traitor, whispering that you should just give in.

“that an offer?” he chuckles, the sound a deep rumble in his chest that you can feel through the mattress. “i might be too sick t’take you up on it. but i appreciate the enthusiasm.”

you huff, turning your face away from him, but the movement only brings the scent of him- sweat and sickness and something uniquely gerard- closer. “you’re delirious.”

“maybe,” he agrees, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “but i’m not wrong about you being cold.” he shifts again, this time turning onto his side to face you fully. the movement is fluid, languid. in the dim light, he’s ethereal. the fever has flushed his cheeks a delicate pink, contrasting with the pallor of the rest of his skin.

his dark eyelashes are long wispy shadows against his cheekbones, and his lips, slightly parted, look swollen and soft. he’s a beautiful, sick angel, and the thought is so absurd it almost makes you laugh.

his hand comes up, slow and deliberate, and you flinch, expecting a poke or some other annoying gesture. instead, his fingers gently brush a stray strand of hair from your forehead, tucking it behind your ear. the touch is feather light, impossibly tender, and it makes your breath catch.

your palms, which had been pressed flat against the mattress, lift instinctively and press against his chest to push him away, to create some space. but the moment they make contact, you freeze. his skin is soft, hot, and smooth over the lean muscle beneath. your fingers splay involuntarily.

“you’re burning up,” you manage to say, your voice barely audible.

“i told you. i’m a fuckin’ furnace.” he looks down at where your hands are splayed on his chest, then back at your face. his eyes are dark, pools of shadow and want. “you ain’t pushin’ very hard.”

you open your mouth to retort, to say something cutting that will break this spell, but he speaks first. “come here.” it’s not a command, but a gentle coaxing. “just… stop fighting it. i won’t tell anyone you were nice t’me, i promise.”

before you can formulate a response, his arm is wrapping around your waist, a firm, warm band of muscle that pulls you flush against him. your gasp is lost in the sudden, overwhelming heat. your cheek is pressed against his chest, right over his heart, and you can feel its steady, strong thump against your skin.

this is too close. this is everything you’ve been avoiding. “gerard-” you start, a weak protest.

“shhh,” he murmurs, his chin resting on the top of your head. his breath stirs your hair. “jus’ for a minute, yeah? wanna get your temperature up.” his hand is tracing slow, lazy circles on your back, and you can feel the fight draining out of you, replaced by a bone deep lethargy and a terrifying flutter in your stomach. “that’s it, honey. jus’ relax f’me, there y’go…”

you hate the pet name. you hate how much you don’t hate it. you hate how your body is melting into his, how your leg instinctively bends to mold against his.

as if reading your mind, his hand trails down from your back to your thigh, his fingers hooking behind your knee. he gives a gentle, insistent tug. “lift your leg,” he whispers against your hair.

you should say no. you should kick him and bolt. but you don’t. you let out a shaky breath and, as if in a trance, you do as he asks. he easily guides your leg over his hip, hooking it securely. the new position is intimate, possessive.

your core is now pressed directly against his hip, and the thin layers of clothing between you do nothing to disguise the heat, the solid shape of him. you can feel every twitch of his muscle, every slow breath he takes. you’re completely tangled with him. and the worst part, the most terrifying part of it all, is that it feels like coming home.

you lie there in the suffocating quiet, a rigid knot of resistance slowly unraveling in the inferno of his embrace. every second that ticks by feels like an eternity, a slow, deliberate surrender.

the heat of his body is no longer just a comfort- it’s an invasion, seeping into your pores, melting the ice in your veins and replacing it with a liquid, pulsing warmth that pools in between your thighs. he’s nuzzling into your hair now, his nose buried against your scalp, his breathing a slow, rhythmic pattern against your ear. it’s unnervingly intimate.

“y’smell so good,” he murmurs, his voice a muffled, gravelly vibration. “like… angry unicorns and rainbows.”

you can’t help the huff of laughter that escapes you. “you’re insane.”

“perhaps,” he concedes, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. “but i’m right. so why do y’hate me so much? genuinely. i’m curious.”

the question hangs in the air, too raw for the charged atmosphere. you try to pull back, to create some space, but his hold is unyielding. “i don’t hate you,” you grumble, the lie tasting like ash on your tongue. “i dislike your… everything. your stupid face, your know it all attitude, the way you walk around like you’re the tortured messiah of rock and roll.”

he chuckles, a low, throaty sound that vibrates through your entire body. “see? that’s what i’m talkin’ about.” he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes gleaming in the dim light, sharp and knowing. “i jus’ love watchin’ y’get all wound up. it’s the best part of my day. you get this little crease between your eyebrows, and your lip does this thing… it’s fuckin’ adorable.”

“i am not adorable,” you snap, pushing against his chest, but it’s a useless gesture. your palms are still pressed against him, and your fingers betray you, curling slightly into the warm, smooth skin of his chest. “you’re an asshole. you do it on purpose.”

“of course i do,” he confesses, his grin turning wicked, lopsided and hot. “it’s the only way i can get you to look at me for more than five seconds without wantin’ t’throw a guitar at my head.” his gaze drops to your lips, and the air crackles. “and it works, doesn’t it?”

your body is a traitor. it’s throbbing with a low, insistent need, a dull ache that intensifies with every beat of his heart you feel against your own. you can feel the tension coiling in your stomach, a spring winding tighter and tighter. and then, you feel it.

through the thin fabric of your sweats and the even thinner barrier of his briefs, a distinct, rigid pressure presses against your hip. he’s hard. the realization sends a jolt of lust through you, and you can feel yourself melting against him, your body arching into his instinctively, seeking more of that friction.

he feels your response. of course he does. his eyes darken, a flicker of triumph and something deeper, needier, crossing his features. he senses your surrender as easily as a shark smells blood in the water. “see?” he whispers, his voice dropping to a low, husky murmur. “not so immune, are you?”

before you can formulate a snappy comeback, he’s moving. it’s a fluid, confident shift of his weight, and suddenly you’re on your back, and he’s hovering over you, propped on his elbows. his knees bracket your hips, caging you in.

you should be pushing him away, telling him to get the fuck off you, but your arms are already sliding up around his neck, your fingers tangling in the short, pale hair at his nape. it’s a consensual surrender, and you both know it.

he lowers his head, but not to your lips. he bypasses them entirely, his mouth finding the sensitive skin just below your ear. he nips at your jaw, a sharp, playful bite that makes you gasp, before his tongue soothes over the sting.

he’s lavishing attention on your neck, kissing and sucking a path down to your collarbone, his movements hungry and a little clumsy, but utterly addictive. it’s like he’s been starving for this, for you.

“told you i could warm you up,” he rasps against your skin, his voice thick with need. “but i think we’re wearin’ too many clothes.”

your brain has short circuited. all you can do is feel- the scrape of his teeth, the wet heat of his tongue, the solid weight of him pinning you down. your hips lift off the bed, a silent, desperate plea for more pressure, more friction.

“gerard,” you breathe, the sound a pathetic whimper. “please.”

he lifts his head, his eyes dark and wild. “please what, honey? use your words.”

“touch me,” you beg, your hands tightening in his hair. “grind against me- jus’ do something, please.” a slow, satisfied smirk spreads across his face.

he pushes himself up, kneeling between your spread legs. his movements are practiced as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your sweats, pulling them down along with your panties in one smooth motion as you peel off your sweatshirt and toss it.

you kick them off the rest of the way, lying bare before him, the cool air a stark contrast to the fire burning in your veins. he makes you lay back down, his gaze possessive as it roams over your exposed body.

then he stands up briefly, just long enough to hook his thumbs into his own briefs and slide them down his legs. he kicks them away, and then he’s back over you, and you’re both completely bare. his cock is hard and heavy, flushed an angry red, resting against his stomach as he lowers himself back down, his skin hot against yours.

he captures your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head, and the sheer dominance of the move makes you moan. the weight of him is delicious, a solid, grounding pressure that pins you to the mattress and makes your head spin.

he’s all hot skin and soft angles, and the fever in his blood seems to have transferred directly to yours. for a moment, he just looks at you, his dark eyes roaming over your face, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. then, a slow, cheshire grin spreads across his lips.

“look at you,” he breathes, his voice a low, husky rumble that vibrates through your bones. “all spread out f’me. you’re so fuckin’ pretty when you stop tryin’ t’fight it.”

he shifts his hips, and the blunt, sticky head of his cock drags right through your slick, swollen folds. the friction is electric, a perfect, obscene glide that makes you gasp, your back arching off the bed. he grins, a feral, triumphant thing, as he watches you fall apart beneath him.

“gee,” you moan, the sound ripped from your throat.

“god, keep fuckin’ sayin’ that,” he groans, dropping his head to bury his face in the crook of your neck. he’s like a starving man, his mouth hot and demanding against your skin. he sucks a bruise into the sensitive flesh where your neck meets your shoulder, his teeth scraping over the mark before his tongue laps at it in a messy, apologetic kiss. he bites down again, harder this time, a sharp, stinging pleasure that makes your clit throb. “so fuckin’ needy for my cock,”

he rocks his hips again, and this time the thick shaft of his cock presses perfectly against your pulsating clit. the pressure is exquisite, a direct, rhythmic torment that has you whining and bucking your hips up to meet him. you’re desperate for more, for a harder pressure, a faster rhythm.

“please,” you beg, your hands flying into his sweat damp hair as soon as his forearms cage you in.

he just laughs, a hot, breathy sound right against your ear. “please what, honey? y’gonna make those pretty little sounds for me all night?” he’s mocking you, but his voice is thick with his own desperate need. he grinds against you again, slow and deliberate, his cock sliding through your mess of arousal. “am i warming y’up yet? feelin’ the heat?”

your answer is a frustrated tug on his hair, and the sharp sting seems to snap something in him. his hips buck, pressing his hardness against you with enough force to steal your breath. the pleasure is blinding, a white hot surge that makes your toes curl. your nails dig into the soft skin of his back, raking red lines down his sweat slick spine as you try to anchor yourself.

he’s relentless. he keeps up that maddening, slow grind, his mouth never leaving your neck. he sucks and bites and laves at your skin, marking you, claiming you, while his hips roll in a hypnotic rhythm that’s driving you mad. the coil in your stomach winds tighter and tighter, a delicious, agonizing tension that builds with every pass of his heavy cock over your clit.

you can feel the slickness dripping from you, coating him, making the slide of his body against yours impossibly wet and obscene. “gee, please,” you sob, the words tumbling out, broken and pathetic. “m’so close. don’t stop- please, don’t stop-”

he can feel it. he can feel the way your body is trembling, the way your thighs are quivering around his hips, the desperate, pleading edge to your voice. he lifts his head, his face flushed and his eyes wild with fever and lust.

“fuck,” he moans, his voice strained. “sounds so fuckin’ sweet when you beg.” he stills his hips, and the sudden lack of movement is a torture all on its own. you whine in protest, trying to rock up against him, but he pins you with his weight. “look at me,” he commands, and you force your eyes open to meet his. “i need t’be inside you. lemme fuck you, honey. please?”

his desperate plea is your undoing. the thought of being empty, of him leaving you like this, is unbearable. “yes,” you gasp, your hands flying from his hair to clutch at his broad shoulders. “fuckin’ put it in- need you- need t’be full of your cock, now.”

that’s all it takes. with a whimper, he reaches between your bodies, grasping the thick base of his cock. he lines himself up with your dripping entrance, and for a second, he just pauses, the head of him nudging against you, teasing you.

then, with one slow, deliberate push, he sinks into you. the stretch is delicious, a burning, full pressure that steals the air from your lungs and makes your vision swim. he’s filling you, stretching you, claiming every inch of you until he’s buried to the hilt, his hips flush against yours.

for a moment, he just stays there, buried deep inside you, his weight a grounding, possessive pressure. you can feel every frantic beat of his heart against your chest, every ragged breath he takes. his fever has him in a haze, but his focus is razor sharp, locked entirely on you.

he looks utterly wrecked- his cheeks and chest flushed a deep, blotchy red, his hazel eyes glassy and blown wide with lust, his brows furrowed in concentration. his pointed nose is perfect, and his parted, swollen lips look so fucking kissable it’s a physical pain. he’s pussy drunk, completely lost in the feeling of you wrapped around him, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“y’feel so good,” he moans, his voice a strained, broken thing. “so fuckin’ perfect.” he starts to move then, his hips pulling back in a slow, deliberate drag that makes you feel every thick inch of him before he plunges back in, deep and impossibly slow. his balls slap wetly against your ass with every thrust, a lewd, rhythmic percussion that echoes the throbbing in your clit. “made jus’ for me, weren’t you? made t’take my cock.”

he’s unforgiving, his hips never stopping their deep, torturous rhythm. he’s taking his time, savoring every slide, every clench of your walls around him. his mouth is back on your neck, licking and sucking a path up to your jaw, his tongue leaving a hot, wet trail that makes you shiver. he can’t seem to help himself, like he needs to taste every inch of your skin.

“oh fuck,” you gasp, your hands fisting in his hair. you can’t take the teasing anymore, can’t take the sight of his perfect, kissable mouth so close and yet so far. you tug him down, and his mouth crashes into yours.

the kiss is a mess of teeth and tongue, hungry and desperate. it’s not gentle- it’s a clash of all the pent up frustration and lust that has been simmering between you for years. as his tongue tangles with yours, he angles his hips just so, and the thick head of his cock kisses your gspot with perfect, devastating precision. you cry out into his mouth, your body arching off the bed as a jolt of pleasure shoots through you.

you can feel him smirk against your lips. “fuckin’ found it, didn’t i?” he teases, his voice a smug, breathy whisper. he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with triumph. “y’like that, honey? like when i fuck you right there?”

“fuck you,” you pant, but there’s no venom in it, only breathless need.

“oh? but i am fuckin’ you,” he grins, his hips still grinding into you, slow and deep. “and you’re lovin’ every second of it.” he nips at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with a sweep of his tongue. “admit it.”

“never,” you spit, but your body betrays you, your hips rising to meet his, your legs tightening around his waist.

he just laughs, a low, husky sound. “that’s my girl.” he encourages you with a hand on your thigh, guiding you to wrap your legs more securely around his waist. “jus’ like that, lock your ankles. don’t want you getting away.” he’s praising you, his voice a low, constant murmur of filthy encouragement. “so good f’me- takin’ my cock so well. fuck, m’gonna do this all the time. gonna bend you over every fuckin’ surface in this mansion.”

“okay,” you agree, the word a breathy moan. you’d agree to anything right now, as long as he doesn’t stop.

he keeps up that maddening rhythm for what feels like an eternity, dragging it out, pushing you to the brink and then easing back, leaving you dangling, desperate for more.

the coil in your stomach winds tighter and tighter, a delicious, agonizing tension that builds with every deep, deliberate thrust. you can feel yourself getting close again, the pleasure cresting, a wave building deep inside you, ready to crash.

“gee, please,” you beg, your nails clawing down his sweat slick back. “so close- pease, let me come.”

“not yet,” he grunts, his hips slowing even more, the torture almost unbearable. “y’gotta earn it- tell me what you want.”

“you,” you sob, the admission tearing from your throat. “i want you. always wanted you.” that’s all it takes.

a slow, triumphant grin spreads across his face. “atta girl,” he praises, and then he’s fucking you in earnest. his hips snap forward, his rhythm breaking, becoming faster, harder, deeper. the change is immediate, a frantic, desperate pace that sends you hurtling towards the edge.

you clutch onto him, your arms locked around his neck as he hooks his strong arms under your thighs, lifting your hips, changing the angle. he’s even deeper like this, his cock pounding into you, hitting that perfect spot over and over again.

“come for me, honey,” he commands, his voice strained. “come all over my cock.”

that’s all it takes. the wave crests and crashes, and you’re coming, your body convulsing, your vision whiting out as pleasure floods your system. you cry out his name, your walls clamping down around him as you gush, soaking his cock, your thighs, the sheets beneath you.

“fuckin’ christ,” he groans, his hips stuttering as he fucks you through it, prolonging your pleasure. “so fuckin’ pretty when you come.” he buries his face in your neck, his movements becoming erratic, desperate. “gonna come,” he whines, his voice high and needy. “please, honey, can i come inside you? please- lemme fill you up.”

“do it,” you gasp, your body still trembling. “please.”

with a guttural moan, he buries himself to the hilt and comes, his cock pulsing as he spills into you, hot and thick. he whimpers into your neck, his body trembling with the force of his release. you pet his short hair, your fingers stroking through the sweat damp strands as he slowly comes back to himself, his hips gradually coming to a stop.

he grins against your skin, a slow, satisfied thing, his cock still twitching inside you, a tangible reminder of what you’ve just done.

but then, his lips trail lazily from your neck to your jaw, then finally capture yours in a kiss so stupidly soft it makes your chest ache. you bite his lower lip in retaliation, but he just hums, amused, his cock twitching inside you again like he’s already half hard despite the mess he just made of you.

“mm, you’re stayin’ right here,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough with exhaustion and something dangerously close to affection. his hips roll once, twice, dragging another broken whine from you before he stills again.

“you’re fucking impossible,” you sigh, but your fingers tighten in his pale hair anyway.

“maybe.” his grin is bright, his eyes glassy with sickness but still sharp enough to pin you in place. “still keepin’ you.”

“you can’t just-”

“watch me.” he nips at your chin, then your throat, his teeth scraping where he knows it drives you insane. “gonna fuck you ‘til you forget why y’hate me.”

“you wish,” you breathe, but your thighs tremble around his waist, and he laughs- hoarse and breathless and so fucking pleased with himself- before kissing you like he means to steal the argument right out of your mouth.