the sun beats down mercilessly, turning the stage into an inferno that makes your sequined crop top cling to your damp skin. sweat trickles down your temples as you pour every ounce of energy into the final chorus, your voice raspy but determined as it cuts through the thick, humid air. the crowd stretches before you, a sea of sun dazed faces swaying in time with your hips, which roll instinctively with the rhythm.

your hair, meticulously styled hours ago, has rebelled against the heat, creating a wild halo around your face that catches the golden light and makes you look almost ethereal despite your exhaustion.

your fingers, adorned with silver rings that glint in the sunlight, tighten around the mic stand as you deliver the heart wrenching final note. the cheap denim shorts you’d thought were such a brilliant idea this morning now dig uncomfortably into your crotch, while the leather straps of your sandals have rubbed your heels raw.

but you push through, your piercing stare sweeping across the audience as you sing, knowing that somewhere out there, he’s watching. “and that’s all we’ve got for you tonight!” you scream into the microphone, your voice hoarse. “thank you, you’ve been beautiful!” the roar of the crowd follows you as you stumble offstage, the world tilting slightly as your vision swims.

backstage offers only marginal relief from the oppressive heat, the shade doing little to combat the suffocating humidity. you hand your in-ears and mic pack to a roadie who accepts them with a sympathetic smile, pressing a cold bottle of water into your hand. your bandmates have already disappeared, probably chasing the powder that’s been circulating like wildfire on this tour. typical.

you set the water down on a rickety table, your fingers trembling as you rake them through your sweat damp hair. all you want is a shower and about twelve hours of sleep, but you know that’s not happening anytime soon. not when he’s around.

you feel him before you see him- a presence that makes the fine hairs on your arms stand up despite the heat. his chest presses against your back, the rough denim of his jacket damp with sweat, but somehow still cool against your feverish skin. large hands claim your hips with practiced ease, thumbs stroking circles over the bone as his breath ghosts across the nape of your neck.

“that was one hell of a show, honey,” gerard murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your entire body. “had half the crowd ready t’pass out from the heat, and the other half ready t’pass out from wantin’ you”

“flattery will get you nowhere, way,” you retort, but your voice lacks conviction as his fingers trace patterns on your hips, sending shivers down your spine. just as he leans in, you turn your head away, his lips brushing against your cheek instead of finding their intended target.

a low chuckle rumbles in his chest as he watches you pull back, the sound vibrating through your body where you’re still pressed against him. “always playin’ hard to get,” he teases, his hazel eyes crinkling with amusement.

you roll your eyes, pushing away from him with more force than necessary. “m’not playing anything, gerard. i’m exhausted.” your words are slightly slurred as you sway on your feet, the heat and fatigue finally catching up with you. “i’ve been sweating under that godforsaken sun for hours- all i want is t’pass out somewhere air conditioned.”

as you turn to walk away, your hips sway with an exaggerated roll that’s part genuine exhaustion and part performance. you make it maybe five steps before his hand shoots out, wrapping around your arm and spinning you back toward him. before you can protest, he’s backing you down a narrow hallway away from the main backstage area, the shadows swallowing you both.

your back hits the cool brick wall with a soft thud, the temperature difference making you gasp. gerard cages you in with his body, his hands planted on either side of your head. this close, you really take him in- the denim jacket that clings to his shoulders perfectly, the one that haunts your dreams and has become synonymous with him in your mind.

his sunglasses are already pushed into his perfectly tousled hair, and those dark eyes of his are fixed on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. your hands find its way to his neck like muscle memory, fingers tangling in the soft hair at his nape as you thumb the sensitive skin there. it’s a familiar gesture, one that’s become second nature in the two months you’ve known him.

your gaze drops accidentally, of course he’s hard. you’ve noticed it before- how he always seems to be when you’re around. but then again, he’s like that with all women, so you’re nothing special. the thought sends an unpleasant clench through your chest, a bitter taste in your mouth. “what’s wrong?” gerard asks, his voice softening as he tilts your chin up with thick fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“nothing,” you lie, trying to pull away. “i told you, m’tired.”

he tuts, shaking his head slowly. “don’t lie t’me, honey. i can see it in those pretty eyes of yours.” his thumb strokes your jaw, sending unwanted sparks through your body. “someone’s gotten under your skin.”

you scoff, turning your head again. “keep telling yourself that,” gerard leans in, attempting to press a kiss to your cheek, but you dodge it at the last second. undeterred, his lips find the sensitive skin of your neck instead, and you can’t suppress the groan that escapes you as he nips lightly at your pulse point. “gerard,” you breathe out, but it sounds weak even to your own ears. “i wanna go back to my bus.”

“not yet,” he murmurs against your skin, one of his hands moving from the wall to your waist, pulling you flush against him. “we ain’t done yet.”

you try to push away again, to slip past him and make your escape, but he’s having none of it. his grip tightens just enough to hold you in place without hurting, his body a solid wall of muscle and denim and the scent of smoke and coffee that’s become so dangerously familiar. “let me go,” you demand, but the tremor in your voice betrays you.

he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, that infuriating smirk back on his face. “yeah? make me,” he challenges, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that makes your knees weak.

something shifts in you- a spark of defiance that cuts through your exhaustion. without warning, you lean in, pressing a quick, deliberate kiss to gerard’s soft cheek. his eyes widen in genuine surprise, a rare flush creeping up his neck as he sputters, completely caught off guard.

before he can recover, you duck under his arm and bolt, your sandals slapping against the concrete as you make your escape. a triumphant smile spreads across your face as you weave through the maze of equipment and people backstage.

your victory is short lived. a yelp escapes your lips as an arm wraps around your waist, lifting you off the ground with impossible ease. some roadies stop to stare, while members of another band whistle and catcall as gerard throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing at all. “gerard arthur way, put me the fuck down right now!” you scream, pounding your fists against his back as blood rushes to your head.

“not a fuckin’ chance, honey,” he retorts effortlessly, his hand firmly planted on your ass to keep you in place. “bringing you t’my dressing room where the guys are waitin’. ray’s got that good stuff.”

the thought of spending more time with him- and having to watch him hang around jessie- makes you want to vomit. of course she’s wherever gerard is. you’re not sure what she is to him, but then again, what is any woman to gerard if you’re being honest? you’re just another one of his women friends he likes to mess with, except you’re most likely the only one he couldn’t get into your pants. that’s probably why he’s so obsessed with the chase when it comes to you.

your patience wears thin as you hang over his fucking shoulder, and you can’t help but notice his ass is looking especially fine today in those tight jeans. so what do you do? you bring your palm down twice in quick succession, the smacks echoing through the hallway. “put me down, you fucking neanderthal!” you scream, ignoring the growing chorus of laughter from onlookers.

gerard chuckles, his grip tightening slightly. “feisty today, aren’t we?” to make it even better, you grab the waistband of his blue underwear peeking above his jeans and pull up hard. the sound of ripping fabric fills the air as you give him a wedgie he won’t soon forget.

“jesus fuckin’ christ!” he gasps, clearly not expecting that as he stumbles forward, nearly dropping you as he finds his footing again. “you little hellcat-” you think he’s finally going to put you down, until a deafening crack echoes through the hallway followed by a sharp sting blooming against your ass cheek as his huge palm comes in contact with your flesh. the impact makes you yelp, your eyes widening in shock.

he finally sets you down, but not before turning you to face him. the shit eating grin he wears causes your face to flare in embarrassment as you curse him out, half heartedly punching his chest as your face stays burrowed in his denim clad chest. “asshole! jerk! you-”

“karma,” he cuts in, humming softly as one hand finds your hip while the other rubs your stinging ass in soothing circles, causing you to whimper despite yourself. he presses a soft kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin. “that’s what you get for rippin’ my favorite pair.”

the mixed signals are enough to drive you crazy- punishment followed by comfort, dominance followed by tenderness. it’s gerard in a nutshell, and it’s exactly why you can’t seem to stay away.

you kinda just… accidentally melt into him, your body betraying your mind as you lean into his touch. he laughs, the sound vibrating through your chest as he coos at you in endearment, his thick fingers squeezing your ass through your shorts. a nearly inaudible moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, earning him a glare as you retaliate by giving his ass a firm squeeze right back. big mistake.

his smirk widens, a familiar ghost that haunts your dreams and leaves you breathless, imagining the weight of him pressing you down, daring you to push him further. truthfully, your resolve is fraying- you’re surprised you haven’t folded already. the tour is a chorus of warnings and boasts- random women in insignficant bands and girls in smoke filled bathrooms all singing the same song about how he tastes and how much he has to give. it’s an agonizing exercise in patience, loving a man who treats intimacy like a sport and doesn’t know the first thing about how to actually hold a heart.

he pulls you back to the present with a sudden grip, his free hand cupping your other ass cheek and kneading the skin with an ease that tells you he knows exactly how to break you. your legs give way, and you find yourself clinging to his shoulders, your head spinning as the world narrows down to the scent of him and the touch of his skin. “look at you,” he teases, his voice dropping to a rumble that makes your thighs clench instinctively. “pretty fuckin’ pliant, aren’t ya?”

you gasp, the sound swallowed by the sudden, hard pressure of him pressing into your lower stomach. he’s thick and insistent, leaving no doubt about how much he wants this. you arch your neck, pulling his hair just enough to make him hiss, your voice a challenge. “don’t get ahead of yourself. i’m just making sure you don’t leave here frustrated.”

gerard scoffs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “oh, honey...” his hands dive low, skimming the inner curve of your thighs, teasing the heat where you’re aching for him, before he rips them back up to your hips with a cruel efficiency. he hums, a smirk evident in his voice. “what a pity.”

your knuckles are white from gripping his shoulders, the surrender almost complete, when the door beside you clicks open. frank is leaning against the frame, arms crossed and expression somewhere between a migraine and a joke “really? again?” he asks, scanning the scene. “you two were actually gonna do it in the hallway?”

you start to sputter, heat climbing up your neck, but gerard is faster, pulling you back against his chest to shield the lingering print on your ass. he doesn’t miss a beat. “no free show tonight, frankie. this one’s mine.” he slides his denim jacket off his shoulders and drapes it over you, guiding your arms through the sleeves with a slow, deliberate patience. the smell hits you instantly- stale smoke, warm vanilla, and coffee- and it makes the room tilt. “gerard, i-”

“shh,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “let’s get you somewhere more private.”

you roll your eyes, ignoring the command as you trail into the dressing room. gerard lets out a low chuckle, knowing you aren’t falling for the act. the air inside is thick enough to taste, a heavy haze of smoke that clings to the curtains. ray and mikey are slumped on a worn couch, passing a blunt back and forth in slow motion. ray gives you a dopey, red rimmed wave, while mikey looks like he’s simply melted into the cushions, completely gone.

“if you’re looking for the exit, you’re about ten minutes too late,” frank says, though he doesn’t look up from the blunt in his hand. you don’t answer, your eyes scanning the room- a chaotic graveyard of half empty liquor bottles and tangled cables. you feel an acute sense of displacement, like a guest who overstayed a welcome that was never actually extended. then frank sinks into the couch, and gerard follows, collapsing onto the opposite side with a dramatic, theatrical groan that cuts through the haze.

the tight black t-shirt he’s wearing leaves very little to the imagination, pulling across his shoulders and framing his bare arms. you feel a sudden, sharp pulse of heat between your legs, a visceral reaction to the way he pouts up at you. his face is flushed, eyes heavy, making grabby hands like a needy dog. “c’mere, honey,” he begs, his voice a jagged rasp from the smoke. “don’t leave me all alone over here.”

frank lets out a sharp laugh, shaking his head as he exhales a cloud of grey. “you’re fucking pathetic, man.” the whiplash is what gets to you. gerard operates on a frequency of extremes- he’s a cocktail of arrogant confidence and desperate vulnerability, shifting between the two without warning. it’s fascinating, in a way that makes you want to scream.

you huff and start toward him. he plays it up, extending his arms in a wide, sweeping invitation, but you catch the smirk- the predatory glint in his eye- a split second before he yanks you straight onto his lap. you let out a small gasp, a muffled groan, as the other guys erupt into laughter. their conversation carries on around you, a blurred background noise, while gerard hums against the skin of your neck, his arms locking firmly around your waist. “that’s better,” he murmurs, the vibration of his voice rattling in your chest. “much better.”

instinctively, your arms circle his neck. you find yourself idling, fingers threading through his hair, while a part of your brain starts a countdown. you’re waiting for jessie to appear. she always appears- usually the exact moment things with gerard become tolerable, as if she possesses a psychic sense for when you’re actually starting to enjoy yourself.

but the minutes stretch. the air grows thick. gerard begins to mouth at your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, his tongue lapping at the flesh in a slow, deliberate attempt to draw a reaction from you. he begins rubbing slow, heavy circles into your thigh, his hand hovering dangerously close to the ache in your core.

the silence from the doorway is the strangest part. no footsteps, no sudden intrusion. it feels unnatural, a heavy, stifling calm before a storm you can’t see coming.

the weight of him is a physical anchor, dragging you down into the cushion. gerard’s body is a furnace at your back, his chest heaving in a slow, rhythmic cadence that vibrates against your spine. his palm is a heavy brand across your stomach, splaying wide, pinning you to him as if he’s afraid you might evaporate if he lets go.

even through the fabric of the jacket draped over you, you can feel the sudden, sharp spike of his arousal pressing hard into the curve of your backside. “you’re gonna fall asleep on me, aren’t ya?” the words are a low vibration against your ear, his breath a humid bloom of heat.

“mm,” you hum, the sound vibrating in your own throat, thick with sleep. “maybe if you behaved yourself,”

“where’s the fun in that?” he doesn’t wait for an answer, his teeth grazing the delicate skin of your earlobe in a sharp, playful nip that sends a jolt of electricity straight to your thighs.

you’re hovering on the precipice of a blackout, the world blurring into the scent of his skin and the warmth of the couch, when a sharp, insistent pressure blooms in your lower abdomen. it’s a cold, urgent contrast to the heat of his body. you shift, the friction of his jeans rubbing against your skin, but the ache in your bladder is an intrusive alarm clock. “gotta piss,” you mumble, the words slurred, as you try to peel yourself away from the magnetic pull of his chest.

gerard’s arm locks around your waist, a sudden, possessive tightening that crushes your hips back against him. “no, you don’t.”

“yes, i do,” you huff, wiggling against him, the movement only serving to grind your backside further into his cock. “unless you want me to do it right here on your lap.”

he lets out a guttural groan, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. he releases you with a dramatic, jagged sigh, but his eyes remain locked on you- dark and hungry. “fine. but hurry back. m’not done with you yet.”

you get up and glance back at gerard as he stares at you with a pout, nuzzling into the warmth of where you were lying just moments ago. you notice how he thrusts lightly into the cushion to relieve himself, and you roll your eyes as your face heats at the thought. the bathroom down the hall calls to you, a temporary escape from the charged atmosphere of the dressing room.

you’re staring into the bathroom mirror, watching a single bubble of soap spiral down the drain, slow and hypnotic. the fluorescent lights overhead aren’t just humming- they’re vibrating in your teeth. you lean your weight against the porcelain sink, the denim of gerard’s jacket suddenly feeling like a lead shroud. it’s too big, the sleeves swallowing your hands.

a sharp tug at your sleeve snaps the thread of your thoughts. “is this gerard’s?” the voice is a scalpel. you don’t have to look up to know it’s jessie. when you finally do, she looks like a curated exhibit under the harsh white lights: porcelain skin, midnight hair that curls with mathematical precision, and boots that put her at an altitude where she can look down on everyone. she’s a masterpiece of a girl, and the sight of her makes your throat tighten with a sudden, acidic urge to gag.

“yeah- he, uh- he made me wear it. he said...” you scramble for a lie, your mind racing to bury the memory of his hand striking your ass, the sudden heat of the slap followed by the casual drape of the denim to cover the evidence. “it was cold backstage. he didn’t want me catching a chill.”

jessie doesn’t laugh. she makes a low, humming sound in her throat- a sound of acknowledgment, not agreement. “he has a habit of giving girls his jacket,” she says. her eyes aren’t on your face- they’re scanning the fabric of the coat, treating it like a crime scene. “says it’s his way of marking territory.” she finally meets your eyes, her gaze clinical. “though usually, he takes it back before they get too comfortable.”

you reach for a paper towel, the rough brown texture scraping your skin raw as you dry your shaking hands. “i was just about to give it back.”

“interesting.” jessie’s hand closes around your forearm. her grip is surprisingly firm, the fingers digging into your skin with a possessiveness that mirrors the very thing she’s mocking. “actually, come with me. he’s been looking for you.” your palms grow damp again. the walk back to the room feels like a march towards death. you can hear them before you see them- the low rumble of the guys’ laughter, the clink of glass, the haze of cigarette smoke leaking into the hallway. the door creaks open.

gerard is mid sentence, his silhouette framed by the dim, amber light of the room. his eyes lock onto yours instantly, a flash of something warm and hungry, before they slide to the hand jessie has clamped around your arm. the smile doesn’t leave his face entirely, but it shifts. it becomes something different- something unreadable- and as the silence stretches, the jacket on your shoulders begins to feel less like a garment and more like a target.

jessie doesn’t look at you when she moves- she’s too busy molding herself into the curve of gerard’s side. she doesn’t just sit next to him- she colonizes his space, her movements fluid and practiced, while you stand three feet away feeling like a glitch in the room.

gerard looks stiff for a heartbeat- a momentary rigidity in his shoulders- before he collapses into her. it’s a specific kind of surrender, a loosening of the spine that he’s never once offered to you. across the room, frank doesn’t say a word, but his stare is a physical weight, pinning you to the floorboards.

“found your little friend in the bathroom,” jessie says. her voice is light, airy, the kind of tone used for toddlers or pets. she traces a slow, possessive line down gerard’s forearm. “saw her wearing your jacket.”

gerard finally looks up. his eyes are tired, carrying a flicker of something that looks like an apology, but it’s thin- a translucent veil that doesn’t cover the fact that he’s letting her stay exactly where she is.

jessie leans in, her lips lingering on his cheek just a second past the point of affection and into the territory of a claim. to break the tension, gerard sparks a cigarette. the flame flares bright, casting a harsh, flickering orange light across the hollows of his face. he doesn’t pull away when she tucks herself into the crook of his neck. he just exhales a plume of smoke and waits. “lemme have a drag,” she murmurs.

he hands the cigarette over without looking. their fingers brush- a casual, mindless intimacy- and the small, private smile they share feels like a door slamming shut in your face. “i should go,” you say. your voice sounds small, foreign to your own ears.

as you turn to leave, jessie doesn’t move, but her grin sharpens, her eyes tracking you with a predatory stillness. you grip the denim of the jacket, your fingers trembling against the fabric. you peel the garment off your shoulders in one quick, jagged motion. you turn your back to the room and step away, but the silence that follows is louder than any shout. you hear frank make a sharp, choked noise- a sound of sudden realization- and ray’s low, hurried command to ‘shut up’ immediately after.

the hallway smells of damp concrete and old grease. it’s a narrow, suffocating artery of beige paint peeling in long, jaundiced strips. every few seconds, the floor vibrates- a low, rhythmic thrum from the stage that feels less like music and more like a heartbeat hammering in your sinuses. your ears are still ringing, a sharp, metallic whistle that drowns out everything but the sound of your own ragged breathing.

you don’t run. if you run, you’re the girl who’s been caught. if you walk, you’re just another part of the tour. but the air feels heavy, clinging to your skin like a wet sheet, and the ghost of gerard’s hand on your ass feels like it’s left a permanent, glowing brand. you’ve spent two whole months being the “sensible one,” the girl who keeps the water bottles full and the schedules tight while the rest of them dissolve into a haze of blow and bourbon. now, you feel like you’re dissolving too.

you’re not paying attention as you turn the corner too fast and walk straight into dave. he doesn’t budge- he just absorbs the impact like a heavy bag. he smells like a stale cigarette crushed into a beer soaked carpet- that specific, exhausted scent of a man who hasn’t seen a shower or a bed in forty eight hours.

he doesn’t catch you so much as he snags you. his hand clamps onto your forearm, fingers digging into the muscle with a clumsy, heavy handedness. he looks tired. his eyes are bloodshot, scanning your face with the detached, glazed curiosity of someone driving past a car crash sight.

“jesus,” dave drawls, his voice gravelly and thick. he doesn’t smile. he just stares, his eyelids drooping. “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” his friends are slumped against the walls, a blur of faded leather and greasy hair. they aren’t posing- they’re just leaning, exhausted, their eyes drifting over you with a slow, vacant hunger. they aren’t looking at your face. they’re tracing the line of your shorts, the way the fabric is twisted- the evidence of the last hour.

dave lets out a short, wet huff of a laugh. it’s not a punchline, it’s just a noise. “who was it?” he asks, his voice dropping into a conversational, exhausted cruelty. “did way finally decide to share, or did you jus’ stop pretendin’ you’re too good for the rest of us?”

you try to pull away, but his grip is lazy and stubborn, pinning you in place. “let go, dave.”

“just askin’ a question, sweetheart.” he leans in, the smell of cheap whiskey and old sweat hitting you in a wave. “is that how it works now? you just let ‘em use you like a piece of gear? plug in, play a set, unplug?” the frustration rises in your throat, jagged and hot. you’re fighting a losing battle against his dead weight when a hand- heavy and calloused- slides across your hip, pulling you backward.

“problem, dave?” gerard’s voice isn’t a shout. it’s a low, sandpaper vibration that rattles in your own chest. he sounds like he hasn’t slept since the tour started.

dave doesn’t let go immediately. he can’t- he’s got an audience, and the effort of maintaining the act is visible in the way his shoulders slouch. “just catching up, way. she was just about t’tell me how the night went.”

gerard’s arm tightens, hauling you flush against his chest. it isn’t a romantic gesture- it’s a sudden, possessive jerk, as if he’s reclaiming a piece of equipment that’s been misplaced. “drop her. now.”

“or what?” dave sneers, though he shifts his weight. the confidence is flickering, replaced by the sheer effort of standing upright. “you gonna write a poem about it? we all know the deal. you use ‘em up and toss ‘em when the song’s over.”

gerard doesn’t flinch. he doesn’t even raise his voice, which makes it worse. “unlike you, dave, i don’t have to scare people into liking me. drop the arm.”

dave laughs, a grating, metallic sound that turns into a cough. “jesus christ- look at her- she’s a total fuckin’ lapdog. been begging for your attention since the hotel.” the air in the hallway feels thick, charged with a simmering, exhausted rage. you can feel the heat radiating off gerard- a heavy, oppressive pressure.

“say that shit again,” gerard warns, his voice dropping an octave, sounding more like a threat than a sentence. “say one more fuckin’ word and i swear t’god, you’re gonna find out how loud i can actually get.”

“oh, please-”

“do you wanna talk about chicago?” gerard interrupts. his voice is flat, clinical. “how about the lobby at the hyatt last year? because i’m sure the label would love t’hear the details of that particular meltdown.” the silence that follows is absolute. dave’s face goes slack. the bravado doesn’t just leave him, it evaporates, leaving him looking small. he looks at his bandmates, but they’re already stepping back, suddenly very interested in the peeling beige wallpaper.

dave releases you with a sharp, awkward scoff, throwing his hands up in a mock surrender that lacks any conviction. “whatever.” he turns and walks away, his gait hurried and uneven. his friends follow in a humbled, silent line, their boots scuffing the floor.

you collapse back into gerard, your body shaking with a sudden, violent release of adrenaline. he doesn’t let go. he holds you there, his grip tight and possessive- a silent admission that while he’s the one who broke you, he isn’t about to let anyone else touch the pieces.

“are you okay?” his voice is a low vibration against your hair, the tension finally leaking out of his shoulders now that the hallway is empty. you can’t find the words- you just nod, your throat feeling too tight to swallow. he steers you deeper into the corridor, away from the fluorescent glare and the lingering feeling of eyes on your back. the dim lighting of the side hall is a relief, but the silence is heavy. you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand, the gesture clumsy and frantic.

he doesn’t say anything at first. he just slips his jacket off his shoulders and drapes it over you. “wear it,” he says. it isn’t a suggestion. you pull the fabric tight, a small, frustrated sound escaping your throat. you feel pathetic- exactly the version of yourself jessie and dave had spent the last hour describing.

gerard reaches out, his palms cupping your face. his thumbs brush your cheekbones, grounding you. you find yourself gripping his wrists, not to push him away, but to keep from shaking. he studies you with an intensity that makes the air feel thin. “i’m sorry,” he says, and he actually sounds it. “for dave. especially for jessie. neither of them had any right t’touch you, let alone say that shit.”

you scoff, glancing away. “don’t apologize for them. you can’t control them.”

“maybe,” he says, gently nudging your chin back toward him. “but i can control who i stand next to. and i can control how i treat you.”

“i don’t need a bodyguard, gerard,” you snap, though the words lack any real bite. you’re already leaning into him, your forehead resting against his chest.

he lets out a small, knowing huff of laughter. “you say that, yet you’re fuckin’ vibrating.”

“stop,” you whisper.

“make me,” he teases. then, his expression softens, the edge of his mouth curling up. “besides, if i let go, you’ll probably walk straight into a wall. we can’t have that.” the laugh that escapes you is wet and jagged, half a sob, but more so relief. you wrap your arms around his neck, and he responds by hauling you flush against him, his grip on your waist firm and steady.

he rocks you slightly, a slow movement that finally slows your heart. “you aren’t what they said,” he murmurs into your hair. “you’re not weak. you’re just... stubborn. and you have this way of drawin’ people in, even the fuckin’ idiots who don’t deserve you.” he presses a lingering kiss to your neck. “and you’re definitely not a clown. though you are a bit of a disaster when you’re upset.”

“shut up,” you mumble.

“never,” he whispers. “not when you look at me like that.”

you pull back just enough to look up at him, your eyes still shimmering. “i’m tired.”

he doesn’t argue. he just laces his fingers through yours. “okay. let’s get you home.”

he steers you through the maze of roadies and equipment, his body acting as a buffer between you and the press of the crowd. as the throng tightens, his hand finds your waist- a heavy, grounding pressure. “gerard,” you whisper, the sound nearly swallowed by the noise. “people are watching.”

he doesn’t flinch. “let them,” he murmurs, pulling you closer beneath the denim jacket he’d draped over your shoulders. “they’re going to talk regardless, they have nothing better t’do.”

you try to keep your voice sharp, to maintain some semblance of a boundary, but you find yourself leaning into him anyway. “they already call me a slut just for being seen with you. this doesn’t help.”

his thumb traces a slow, rhythmic circle against your bare hip. “they’re jealous, honey. that’s all this is.” as you break away from the crowd and cross the open field toward the lot, the whispers follow you- sharp, fragmented ghosts of conversation. then, the adrenaline of the show snaps, and the day hits you all at once. the heat, the performance, the sheer exhaustion of the last twelve hours. your knees give way slightly, a tremor starting in your hands that you can’t seem to stop.

by the time you reach the bus, your vision is swimming. you fumble with the keyring, the metal clinking loudly in the quiet of the lot. you stare at the jumble of silver keys, your fingers shaking too hard to slot one in, cursing the sudden, violent chill that has settled in your bones despite the humid night.

gerard’s weight hits your back all at once, his arms locking around your waist and pulling you flush against him. he doesn’t say anything at first, just rests his chin on your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. “can’t find ‘em, baby?” he murmurs, his teeth grazing your earlobe.

“fuck off, gerard,” you snap, though you don’t pull away. you keep skimming through the key ring, your movements frantic.

he doesn’t listen. he shifts, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the side of your neck, right where the sweat has pooled. “you smell like sunshine,” he teases, his voice dropping an octave, “and fuckin’ rainbows.”

“you’re insane,” you breathe, but your focus is fracturing. you feel his hands start to roam- not tentative, but possessive- sliding from your waist to your ribs. you let out a sharp, involuntary moan, your back arching instinctively into him.

“that’s it,” he coos. “jus’ like that.” you’re so preoccupied with the heat of him that you don’t notice your grip loosen. the keys slide from your fingers, hitting the ground with a metallic clink that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet of the parking lot. gerard leaps back instantly, a triumphant laugh echoing in the small space. he’s already holding the keys, dangling them from one finger. “looking for these?”

“you asshole!” you lunge for them, but he just holds them higher, that familiar, crooked smirk plastered on his face. “not so fast- think you owe me somethin’ first.”

“give them back, you prick!” you shout, but the words are swallowed as he hoists you up. he doesn’t just pick you up- he claims you, your keys dangling from his fingers like a trophy. he’s laughing, a low, jagged sound that vibrates right through your ribs, his eyes shimmering with a triumph that feels almost predatory.

for a second, the world outside the perimeter of his grip ceases to exist. the screaming fans, the filth of the tabloids, the adrenaline- it all burns away, leaving only the suffocating, humid narrowness of the space between your bodies. “i’m pretty sure you’ve lost this round,” he murmurs. his voice isn’t just low, it’s a physical weight, a tremor against your skin that makes your stomach flip.

you let out a sigh that’s full of surrender and frustration, though your resolve has already dissolved. “never,” you breathe, the word sounding more like a plea than a protest. you don’t just lean into him- you collapse, your arms locking around his neck, clinging to him as if the ground beneath you has completely vanished.

gerard lets out a dark, fond chuckle, the sound rattling in his chest. “such a baby,” he whispers, his lips bruising your temple with a kiss that feels less like affection and more like a mark of ownership.

“am not,” you hiss, your teeth sinking into the sensitive flesh of his neck. you taste salt and heat, and you hold on just long enough to feel him shudder.

“are too,” he counters, his voice thickening, turning gravelly. he doesn’t slow down- his stride is steady, relentless, as he carries you toward his bus. he doesn’t even breathe hard under your weight. “i didn’t get nearly enough of this earlier. we’re makin’ up for every goddamn second.”

you stop fighting. you’re dizzy, caught in the rhythmic, predatory sway of his hips and the rough friction of his denim grating against your bare thighs. with every confident step, the insistent, hard press of him against you sends a jolt of electricity straight to your clit. your legs tighten instinctively, locking around his waist, chasing that pulsating, insistent heat.

a low, knowing hum vibrates in his throat- a sound of pure satisfaction. “someone’s fuckin’ starving for this,” he murmurs, his breath hot and damp against the shell of your ear.

the tension is suffocating you, humming with a frequency that threatens to break. then, with a reluctant, guttural sigh, he lets you down. he doesn’t let go immediately- his hands dig into your waist, grounding you against the pavement for a beat too long. he presses a teasing, open mouthed kiss to your cheek and pulls away, leaving you shivering in the sudden cold.

“gerard.” the name leaves your throat as a whine, raw and honest. he laughs, the sound cutting through the air. he doesn’t even look at you as he fishes out his own key, tucking yours in his pocket that he swiped earlier, unlocking the bus with a casual, arrogant flick. “after you, my lady.” the accent is ridiculous, an exaggerated performance of chivalry that makes your skin prickle. he extends a hand.

the moment you take it, the spark is violent. a strange, terrifying heat floods your chest- something far more permanent than a momentary itch. you step onto the bus, and the door clicks shut, sealing you into his world. the sudden silence is deafening. it leaves a void where your dignity used to be. you wonder, not for the first time, what your label is in his mind. toy? pet? a temporary amusement? the warnings from jessie and the sneers from dave are still there, but they’ve become background noise.

you realize you don’t give a shit. you’re drowning in him, and you’ve stopped trying to swim. you need him like oxygen- you need him like a pulse. you breathe out a shuddering sigh, the weight of his jacket anchoring you to the floor. every step to the kitchenette feels like a mile of bad decisions. you open the fridge, the cold air snapping against your skin, but it does nothing to cool the fire in your chest. you reach for a diet coke. his favorite. the only thing he ever drinks.

you’re standing at the counter, the tab of the can snapping open with a sharp, metallic crack that echoes too loudly in the stillness. you don’t need to turn around to feel the atmospheric pressure drop. he’s a predatory gravity, a shadow that doesn’t just follow you, but consumes the space around you until there’s nowhere left to breathe. his hands don’t just find your hips- they claim them, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your waist with a practiced, bruising familiarity. he slides in behind you, his weight a crushing heat, slotting against your spine as if he’s carving himself into your very shape.

a sharp gasp hitches in your throat, your lips curling into a reflexive scowl, and he lets out a soft, airy giggle. it’s a sound of pure, effortless power that makes your heart fracture. he buries his face in the crook of your jaw, inhaling you like a drug, a low, guttural hum of approval vibrating against your skin as his lips graze the bone of your jawline- not a kiss, but a marking. “stealin’ my can, honey?” his voice is a low, teasing rasp, a vibration that travels through your vertebrae and settles deep in your gut.

“it’s what you get for kidnapping me,” you mutter. the words are hollow, stripped of any real venom. he smiles against your skin, the rough grit of his stubble scraping your neck, an irritating, electric friction. you stay frozen, caught in the terrifying luxury of his hold. you want to shove him away, to scream at him for reducing your existence to a raw nerve, but your muscles have betrayed you. you’re melting into the very thing that destroyed your peace, wondering if this is all just a rehearsal for him- if you’re simply a prop in his favorite game- or if there’s something real beneath the arrogance.

“you know,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot and damp, “for someone who claims t’hate me so much, you sure do spend a lot of time in my arms.”

you freeze, the cold aluminum of the can pressed against your lower lip, a stark contrast to the fever of his skin. “i don’t hate you.”

“no?” he challenges, his grip tightening on your hips, hauling you flush against him until you can feel every hard line of his intent. “then tell me. what d’you feel, baby?”

the word love is a jagged piece of glass in your throat, raw and desperate. you want to scream it until the walls crack. instead, you let out a whisper that tastes like absolute defeat. “i don’t know.”

he hums, a dark, noncommittal sound. his thumbs begin to trace slow, agonizing circles on your hipbones, pressing just hard enough to leave a mark. “well,” he whispers, his voice low, “that’s a start.”

the silence that follows isn’t heavy- it’s suffocating, smelling of stale cigarettes and the kind of desperation that makes your throat itch. you don’t whisper. you shout it, your voice cracking in a way that makes you sound small and pathetic. “you barely even know me, gerard. you don’t know a goddamn thing about me, so stop acting like... like this is something.”

he doesn’t flinch. he doesn’t even blink. he just moves in, a slow, predatory glide, and presses his mouth against your jaw. it isn’t a poetic kiss- it’s a claim. his breath is hot, smelling of black coffee and something sharp, and it sends a jolt of pure panic through your stomach. you try to stay rigid, to keep your spine like a board, but your hips are traitorous, instinctively tilting toward him, seeking the friction. “you barely know me,” you repeat, but it comes out breathless. it’s a lie, and the lie tastes like copper in your mouth.

gerard lets out a dry, jagged huff of a laugh. he doesn’t tuck your hair behind your ear with tenderness, he grips the side of your head, his fingers digging slightly into your scalp, forcing you to look at him. his eyes are dark, exhausted, and far too focused. “is that the story we’re tellin’ today?” he asks. his voice is a low rasp that vibrates in your own chest.

“i know you like your back scratched right between the shoulder blades until it almost hurts,” he says, his gaze locking onto yours, stripping you bare. “i know you put your left sock on first because you’re a creature of habit. i know you fuckin’ hate cherries, but you buy every cherry chapstick at the pharmacy because you like the way it tastes on your lips.”

his thumb drags across your cheekbone, not a caress, but a slow, rhythmic pressure that feels like he’s trying to memorize the bone structure. “i know you hum show tunes in the shower to drown out the silence. i know about the scar above your eyebrow from when you were seven and your dad didn’t see the stop sign. i know you can’t stand coffee, but you drink mine anyway jus’ t’feel like you’re takin’ a piece of me with you. and i know you sleep with one leg hanging off the bed ‘cause you’re burnin’ up- especially when i’m pressing my chest into your back.”

you can’t breathe. your heart isn’t hammering- it’s colliding with your ribs, a violent, frantic thing. he isn’t just listing facts- he’s listing the ways he’s been watching you when you thought you were invisible. it feels raw. “you’re not some fuckin’ groupie,” he whispers, his voice dropping into a real, exhausted register. he leans in until your foreheads touch, his breath ghosting over your lips. “you’re the only thing in this room that feels real. you’re my best friend.”

the word friend feels like a slap. it’s the safest word in the world, and the most cruel. it’s a fence he’s putting up right as you’re about to jump. it isn’t enough. it’s nowhere near enough when your blood is screaming and you can feel the heat of him through your clothes, demanding something far more honest than friendship.

“you confuse me,” you whisper. a tear escapes, hot and fast, trailing down your skin. gerard hums, his thumb catching the salt, his gaze darkening. he doesn’t wait for you to finish the thought. he lunges, his mouth crashing into yours with a desperate, starving intensity.

this isn’t a movie- it’s a fucking collision. he tastes of nicotine and old coffee, a bitter addiction that leaves you shaking. his tongue slides against yours with a hunger that borders on aggression, his mouth moving over yours with a crushing, frantic pressure. you aren’t kissing him- you’re clinging to him, your fingers bruising the meat of his biceps as you fight the feeling of spiraling into the floor.

“god, you taste even better than i fuckin’ imagined,” he groans, the sound guttural and low. he pulls back an inch, letting the cold air bite at your swollen lips, before he slams back in. his hands slide down your spine, palms molding to your ass and squeezing with a possessive force, dragging you flush against his hardness until there’s no air left between you.

your legs give out- a genuine, trembling collapse of will. gerard lets out a ragged, hot laugh, catching you just as you drop. he scoops you up, his breathing heavy, his eyes so blown with lust they look entirely black. you tangle your fingers in his dark hair, pulling him back, your movements frantic and starved. as he carries you, you lock your legs around his waist, the friction of denim on denim sending a jolt through your core that makes you gasp- a sharp, needy sound that he swallows whole.

he drops with a heavy, uncoordinated thud, the sagging springs of the couch groaning under the sudden weight. you land on him, hips colliding with a jarring force that sends your sandals sliding off in opposite directions, forgotten on the floor. the kissing isn’t pretty. it’s hungry, desperate- teeth clashing, the frantic sound of breath being stolen. his hands don’t just slide- they dive, fingers frantic as they scramble under the hem of your shirt. his thumbs scrape the sensitive dip of your waist, a rough, unpracticed touch that sends a violent shiver racing up your spine, making you arch into him.

“always wanted t’kiss you,” he pants, his voice sounding raw, like he’s been screaming. “wanted t’fuck you since that night in chicago. when you were wearin’ that dress and laughing at somethin’ ray said… fuck- you have no idea how hard it is t’be normal around you.”

a sob hitches in your throat, tasting of salt and longing. you swallow it, the intensity of his confession crashing against the hollow ache in your chest. this is the exact moment you’ve played on a loop in your head for too many nights, but the air between you feels brittle, like a glass house about to shatter. you know this isn’t a beginning- it’s a loan.

“gerard,” you breathe. he doesn’t let you finish. he cuts you off with his mouth, one hand shoving upward to cup your breast through the lace of your bra. he isn’t gentle- his thumb catches the nipple, pinching and circling with a pressure that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch into a jagged gasp.

“fuck, you’re so responsive,” he groans, a low, guttural sound vibrating in his chest. his hips jerk up to meet yours, hard and insistent, the friction of his denim against you a promise of something inevitable. “every time i touch you, you just... melt. it’s the hottest fuckin’ thing i’ve ever seen.”

he doesn’t just kiss you- he claims you, tilting your head back at an angle that exposes your throat, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, rhythmic demand that feels less like a gesture and more like an ultimatum. the friction is agonizing, a heavy, pulsing ache between your thighs that makes the air feel too thin to breathe. you grind your hips into him, desperate to bridge the microscopic gap, chasing a release that feels like a mirage- tantalizing, but agonizingly out of reach.

“been starvin’ for you,” he murmurs, his voice a low, guttural vibration against your skin as his lips migrate to the sensitive flesh of your neck. he doesn’t just kiss you there- he grazes your pulse point with his teeth, a sharp, possessive nip. “months of this, honey. months of watchin’ you walk away in these shorts, knowin’ exactly how you’d feel under me, and having t’pretend i didn’t wanna tear ‘em off.”

a broken whimper escapes you- a sound of total surrender. your fingers fumble blindly, frantically clawing at the hem of his shirt, desperate to strip away the fabric. you need the raw, searing heat of his skin to cauterize the doubt, to incinerate the boundary between friend and mistake, even if you know the descent will be ruinous.

“please,” you gasp, pulling back just enough to see him. your vision is blurred, your senses swimming. his face is flushed, his lips swollen and red, staring at you with a hunger so predatory it feels as though he could consume you whole. for a fleeting second, the hunger flickers into something devastatingly tender. his thumb brushes your cheek, tracing the trail of a tear you hadn’t realized you’d shed.

“please what, honey?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a promise of absolute ruin. “tell me exactly how you need me.”

everything is screaming in your throat, but you keep it behind your teeth. you want to ask him to love you- really love you- but you know the architecture of his heart, and there’s no room in it for you to stay. instead, you pour that desperation into one last kiss, clinging to him while his arms pull you in, pretending for a second that this is a hiding place from the heartbreak. when his hands roam beneath your top again, you pause. “close your eyes,” you whisper.

the silence that follows is thick, almost tactile. he doesn’t fight you. he lets out a short, dry laugh and leans back into the sofa, his eyes shutting with a smugness that feels like a challenge. he’s just waiting for you to give in.

your heart is hammering against your ribs, a rhythm that makes you feel nauseous. the edges of the room blur as you reach for the jacket. you strip away the crop top and the shorts, your hands shaking so hard the fabric snags. it’s a clumsy, frantic movement. you feel exposed- not just physically, but fundamentally- terrified that you won’t match the image he has of you.

you slide his jacket over your shoulders, retreating into the heavy fabric. it’s an insufficient shield, leaving you open and exposed, the heat of your body radiating through the gaps in the denim.

you straddle him again, the rough texture of his jeans abrasive against your bare heat. you feel the hard, pulsing length of him beneath you, a blunt pressure that makes your stomach flip. “open your eyes,” you breathe. he doesn’t just look- he devours.

his eyes snap open, widening as he takes in the sight of you- bare, trembling, draped in his own jacket. a curse slips from his lips, a low “jesus christ,” that sounds more like a prayer than a profanity. his hands slide onto your bare hips, fingers digging in with a possessiveness that borders on violent. “look at you,” he rasps, his voice sounding like it’s been dragged through gravel. “so fuckin’ pretty.”

he can feel it- the way you’re shaking, the way you’re soaking through the fabric of his jeans. his palms slide upward, calloused and hot, mapping the curve of your waist before his thumbs find your nipples. he doesn’t touch them gently- he circles them with a firm, demanding pressure until they pebble, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

“you’re even more beautiful than i imagined,” he murmurs, his mouth finding the sensitive dip of your neck. “and i’ve imagined a lot. every fuckin’ inch of you.”

you let out a broken moan, your head falling back, exposing your throat to him. “gerard...”

“grind down on me, honey,” he commands. his voice is a low vibration you feel in your own chest. “feel that? feel how hard i am for you? that’s all you, baby. all fuckin’ you.”

you obey, rocking your hips in a slow, agonizing circle. the friction of the denim against your clit is obscene- a coarse, rhythmic scraping that sends sparks of white hot pleasure through your nerves. each roll of your hips earns a guttural groan from him, his fingers bruising your skin as he guides your rhythm, forcing you to feel every inch of his cock.

“fuck, that feels good,” he pants, his breath hot and damp against your skin. “can feel how fuckin’ wet you are through my jeans- you’re jus’ soakin’ them, ain’t you? just drippin’ f’me.” you can’t even speak. you can only whimper, a pathetic, needy sound that seems to fuel him. the pleasure is a coil tightening in your gut, stretching you thin. his lips trail a path of fire along your collarbone, his teeth grazing the skin just enough to hurt.

“i feel dizzy,” you gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, wanting to merge into him.

“good,” he chuckles, the sound ragged and hungry. “i want you dizzy- want you so lost in this y’can’t remember your own fuckin’ name. just me- only me, hmm?”

the pace quickens. your hips move faster, chasing a peak that feels just out of reach. the denim is a torture device, rubbing you raw in the most delicious way possible, until you’re sobbing, your breath coming in short, sharp hitches. “that’s it, baby,” he groans, his grip shifting to your ass, pulling you flush against him. “ride me. take it all.”

you’re right there. the edge is shimmering, a sudden, violent crescendo of heat that threatens to shatter you. but just as you tip, just as the first spasm of release begins to ripple through you, he freezes.

his hands lock your hips in place. he stops you dead.

“not yet,” he whispers, his voice a dark promise. he kisses you deeply, a bruising, desperate kiss that tastes of longing. you whine, a sound of genuine distress, your body writhing in his lap, desperate for the release he’s withholding. the sudden stillness is agonizing, leaving you suspended in a state of raw, aching need.

“please,” you beg, your voice breaking, sounding small and shattered. “please, gerard...”

“calm down, honey” he cuts in, his eyes dark and predatory, his thumbs stroking slow, maddening circles on your hips. “gonna give you what y’need, but you jus’ gotta wait, yeah?”

the words are meant to be a promise, but they feel like a sentence. because what he’s referring to isn’t the way your heart is currently hammering against your ribs, or the way you’ve memorized the specific shade of hazel in his eyes- it’s just the friction. it’s the heat. it’s the biological symmetry of two bodies fitting together while your souls remain light years apart.

“y’hear me, baby?” gerard murmurs.

the air in the room is heavy as your mind reels. you’ve already been hearing him since the moment you realized you were in love with a man who views your devotion as a convenient accessory to his desire. your body is a traitor, trembling not just with need, but with the terrifying realization that you would let him ruin you if it meant you’d have him for another hour.

“i’m confused,” you whisper, the words fragile. he doesn’t answer with words. he flips you onto your back in one fluid motion, the shift in gravity leaving you breathless. suddenly, you’re wide open- exposed and raw. the angle is too intimate- it feels like he can see the parts of you that are screaming for him to love you back. you instinctively bring your hands up to cover your face, a desperate attempt to hide the vulnerability that no amount of makeup or confidence can mask.

gerard coos, a sound of predatory affection, and pries your hands away. his grip is gentle, but there’s a firmness there that reminds you who’s in control. “none of that- lemme see you, all of you.”

he pins your wrists above your head with a single hand, his palm heavy and warm. his other hand begins to trace slow, hypnotic patterns across your stomach, the touch grounding you even as your mind drifts. “you’re gorgeous,” he breathes. “so don’t be hidin’ from me.”

when he leans down to kiss you, you don’t just melt- you dissolve. he tastes like a dream you can’t afford to have. he kisses you with a curated passion, a tenderness that feels so real it almost tricks you into believing the lie. but when he pulls back, his eyes are dark, clouded by a hunger that is purely physical. he doesn’t see the love in your eyes- he only sees the invitation. “can i fuck you?” he asks, his voice a low rasp. “please, y/n?”

the word please is a hook, and you’re already caught. “yes,” you gasp, your voice breaking. “please, gerard- need you.” he calls you cute, a small, dismissive endearment that makes your chest tighten. you hear the metallic click of his belt being unbuckled one handed, a sound that sends a jolt straight to your clit. then, the sudden, searing heat of his cock sliding through your slick folds. he isn’t inside yet- just teasing, coating himself in you, marking the boundary between want and have.

“feel that?” he murmurs against your lips. “feel how wet you are? so fuckin’ perfect f’me.” a hiccup escapes you, your fingers twitching with the urge to hold onto something that won’t disappear. you reach for him, your nails catching in his hair, pulling him closer as he laughs, a soft, breathy sound. he sheds his shirt in one motion, his pudgy chest flushed and heaving. he looks perfect- the soft curve of his biceps, the weight of him caging you into the cushion- it’s the most agonizing thing you’ve ever seen.

you explore the expanse of his broad shoulders, the soft warmth of his skin, trying to memorize the topography of a man who’s only visiting. he settles between your thighs, his weight a comfort that masks the void in your chest. “last chance t’back out,” he whispers, though the crooked grin on his lips says he knows you’re far too gone to leave.

you don’t answer with words. you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him flush against you, desperate to close the gap. he continues the torture, sliding through your wetness, the head of his cock catching against your clit with every upward stroke. it’s a rhythmic, agonizing pleasure that makes your toes curl and your vision blur. “gerard,” you moan, your hips rising instinctively to meet him. “quit teasing.”

he chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. “patience, honey- wanna remember this forever.” the words ache. he wants to remember the act, the victory, the sensation of you breaking beneath him. he doesn’t want to remember the way you look.

he doesn’t make you wait much longer. with a slow, deliberate exhale, he shifts his weight, his hips tilting forward. he doesn’t rush- he enters you in one long, seamless slide, the sensation so intense it feels like he’s rearranging your internal organs. you let out a strangled cry, your head hitting the back of the couch, eyes fluttering shut as you feel the sheer girth of him stretching you open, filling every empty space with a searing, pulsing heat. “fuckin’ shit,” he groans, his voice vibrating against your collarbone. “feels s’good- so fuckin’ warm.”

he doesn’t move for a moment, just stays buried deep, letting you adjust to the invasion. he’s so attentive, his forehead resting against yours, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that feels like a cruel joke. he kisses your nose, your temple, his breath hot and smelling of coffee and desire. then, he starts to move.

it’s a slow, grinding rhythm at first, his hips rolling against yours to maximize the friction. he isn’t just fucking you- he’s worshipping you with every stroke, his movements calculated to hit every nerve ending. you can feel the weight of him- the solid, heavy press of his balls slapping wetly against your ass with every downward thrust, a rhythmic squelch that echoes in the quiet of the bus. “y’like that, don’t you?” he whispers, his voice dark velvet.

you can’t even answer- you can only nod frantically, your fingers bruising his shoulders. you’re so ruined for him that the pleasure feels like pain, a shimmering agony that makes you arch your back and sob into his neck.

“fuckin’ look at me,” he commands softly. you open your eyes, blinking back tears of overstimulation. he’s looking at you with such an intense, focused devotion that you almost forget he doesn’t love you. he reaches down, hooking his strong arms under your knees and pulling your legs high up onto his shoulders, opening you even wider. the angle changes, allowing him to drive deeper, the head of his cock hammering against your cervix.

“oh, god,” you whimper, your voice a broken wreck. “wan’ more- please, gee- harder.” the nickname triggers something in him. the gentlemanly facade doesn’t disappear, but it sharpens. he lets out a low growl and picks up the pace, the friction becoming a blur of heat and wetness. he reaches up, grabbing your hair- not enough to hurt, but enough to tilt your head back and expose your throat.

“open your mouth f’me, honey,” he murmurs. you obey instantly, your lips parting. he leans down, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. he gathers a bit of saliva in his mouth and spits, a slow, glistening thread that lands on your tongue. you swallow it instinctively, a shiver of submission racing down your spine. “atta girl,” he praises, his voice dropping to something lethal. “such a good fuckin’ girl- s’that right?”

he lets go of your hair to deliver a sharp, stinging slap to your ass, the sound echoing through the room. you gasp, the shock of it sending a fresh wave of lubrication flooding out of you. “again,” you beg, your hips bucking wildly.

he obliges, the slaps becoming rhythmic, punctuating the heavy, wet sounds of him bottoming out inside you. he’s relentless now, his movements rougher, more primal, driving into you with a force that makes the couch slide a few inches across the floor. suddenly, he grips your hips and flips you over in one fluid motion. you land on all fours, your chest pressing into the vinyl, your ass hiked high in the air. he doesn’t waste a second, sliding back in from behind. the change in position is devastating- he hits a spot deep inside that makes your entire body shudder.

he reaches forward, his hand winding into your hair to pull your head back against his shoulder, his other hand splaying across your lower back, pressing you down into him. he’s fucking you like he wants to leave a mark on your soul, his breath ragged and hot against your ear. “you’re so fuckin’ unreal,” he groans, his pace becoming frantic. “just for me- shit- tell me you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you sob, the lie tasting like defeat. “i’m yours, gee.” as you feel the first sparks of your orgasm beginning to flicker, he doesn’t let you drift. he flips you back over one last time, his eyes searching yours, his expression raw and desperate. he hooks your legs around his waist again, pulling you so close there isn’t a millimeter of air between you.

he drives in one last time, deep and hard, and freezes. you feel him peak just as you do, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat as he pours himself into you. he doesn’t pull out- he stays buried, rocking his hips slowly, rhythmically, filling you with the hot, thick weight of his come. you can feel it pulsing inside you, a warm tide that seems to anchor you to the spot.

he collapses against you, his head tucked into the crook of your neck, his heartbeat racing against your own. he kisses you- slow, lingering kisses that taste of victory and emptiness- and for a few minutes, the silence of the bus is the only thing that exists. he doesn’t say he loves you. he just holds you, his grip tight and possessive, making sure you feel every inch of him before he eventually pulls away, leaving you shivering and full, staring at the ceiling.

gerard’s a warm weight pressing you into the cushion, his skin humming with a post orgasm glow that makes him look softer than he ever lets himself be.

“you okay, honey?” the words are a velvet trap. he’s blocking out your view of the ceiling, his pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed a deep, heady crimson. that damn smile- the one that tells you he knows exactly what he does to you- tugs at your heartstrings. his damp, fluffy hair is a mess, sticking to his forehead in chaotic spikes.

you hum weakly, a sound of surrender, and whine when he leans down to brush his pointed nose against yours. the kiss that follows is soft, almost tentative, a jarring contrast to the raw friction of minutes ago. it hurts, the sudden realization that this tenderness is just a byproduct of the high, and that tomorrow he’ll be back to jessie and the revolving door of women who follow the tour like satellites. but you drown out the logic.

you circle his neck with your arms, nails raking down the expanse of his bare back. he hums in approval, a vibration you feel in your own chest, and licks into your mouth. you moan against his lips, feeling his cock stir against your inner thigh, twitching with a sudden, renewed hunger as it kisses your clit.

he pulls back just an inch, his breath hot against your skin, eyes searching yours with a cocky, knowing intensity. “somethin’ wrong?” he murmurs, the smirk returning. “y’look like you’re thinkin’ too hard.”

“i wanna ride you,” you breathe, the words desperate and jagged.

gerard lets out a short, huffed laugh, the sound smug. without breaking eye contact, he hooks his hands under your thighs and easily tugs you upward, shifting your weight until you’re straddling his lap. he leans back against the couch, his spine hitting the cushions, opening himself up to you. he looks completely undone yet entirely in control, his legs sprawling, chest heaving. “go on then,” he whispers, his voice a low rasp that vibrates through the small space. “show me how much you want it.”

your bones feel like wax under the heat of his gaze, your brain turning to a thick, useless mush as you hover over him. you’re shivering, not from cold, but from the sheer magnetism of him, your skin humming where it isn’t already touching him. the denim jacket you’re wearing is damp and heavy, clinging to your flushed skin, barely covering your breasts as you lean in, overwhelmed by the way he just exists in your space. slowly, tentatively, you shift.

you slide your sticky slit against the hard, throbbing length of his cock, the friction sending a jolt of electricity straight to your toes. you let out a broken sound, your fingers digging deep into his soft, broad shoulders, anchoring yourself as your vision tilts.

gerard doesn’t let you take the lead just yet. he stays back, teasing you, his tongue tracing the line of your jaw before flickering up to lick the shell of your ear. “that’s it, y/n,” he murmurs, the endearment dripping with a smug, dominant confidence. “jus’ like that. give it to me.”

you whine, a high, needy sound that echoes in the quiet of the bus, your hips stuttering as you grind down harder. every time he moans- a deep, guttural vibration in his chest- it sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through you, making your movements frantic and uncoordinated. “now,” he commands softly, his hands sliding down to guide your hips. “sit on it. take all of me, hmm?”

you struggle. even though he just fucked you senseless, the sheer girth of him feels like an impossible mountain to climb. you gasp, your muscles shaking as you try to lower yourself, the friction agonizingly slow. when you finally sink down, the stretch is immense, forcing a choked sound from your throat as your forehead drops onto his shoulder, your breath coming in ragged hitches. gerard lets out a breathless, airy laugh, the sound vibrating against your skin. “shit- look at you,” he coos, his voice dripping with affection. “just breathe for me, baby.”

you start to move, a slow, tentative grind back and forth, trying to get your body to accept him again. his large hands squeeze your ass, his fingers digging in as he guides your rhythm, his voice becoming a constant, praising hum in your ear. “you’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that feels like a brand. “god, m’so fuckin’ lucky i get to fuck you.”

the words are too smooth. too practiced. the breathless praise- it starts to taste like a script. you can almost see the ghost of jessie in the seat next to you, hearing the same curated lines, the same calculated charm. a sudden, sharp spike of irritation cuts through the lust, replacing the mush in your brain with a cold, hard streak of defiance. without warning, you lift yourself high, your spine arching, and slam back down onto him with a force that knocks the wind out of his lungs.

gerard’s eyes widen, his pupils blowing out until his iris is nearly gone. the smug confidence vanishes instantly. he gasps, his hips jerking upward from the sudden impact, his breath hitching in a way that isn’t nearly as controlled as before. “oh, fuck-” he chokes out, his voice losing its edge.

you don’t give him a second to recover. you lean forward, grabbing a handful of his hair and tugging his head back against the cushion, your movements becoming predatory. you aren’t just riding him now- you’re dominating him, using a strength you didn’t know you had to drive yourself down onto him, hitting your spot with a precision that makes his entire body shudder. “what happened to the control, gerard?” you hum, your voice low and dangerous.

he’s a mess. he tries to find his footing, tries to regain that dominant air, but he’s failing miserably. he’s panting, his chest heaving, his eyes glazed with a mixture of shock and worship. “mama,” he whines, the word slipping out unfiltered and desperate. “please- just... do whatever y’want with me- anything.”

he’s completely submissive under you now, his hips raising on their own, instinctively trying to fuck his way back into your heat, chasing the friction you’re dictating. you lean down, a cruel, playful smile on your lips, and spit right into his open mouth, the audacity of it making him moan louder.

he doesn’t care. he’s gone. he reaches up, blindly grasping for you, his mouth finding your neck, your breasts, sucking on your skin with a frantic hunger. even as he hiccups from the sheer intensity of it, he doesn’t stop praising you, his voice broken and needy, completely undone by the very person he thought he was guiding.

you shift your weight, grinding down with a slow, deliberate pressure that forces a strangled, wet sound from his throat. you aren’t just taking him- you’re reclaiming the territory he tried to play with. every downward slide is a reminder of who’s in control, and you make sure he feels every ridge, every pulse of your walls tightening around him.

“look at you,” you purr, leaning back so you can watch his expression. his pretty face is a disaster- flushed a deep, bruised crimson, eyes glazed over and unfocused, a thin trail of drool escaping the corner of his mouth as he gapes at you. he looks pussy drunk, completely intoxicated by the friction, his brain seemingly short circuiting. “you’re just a mess for me, aren’t you?”

“mhm! fuck, mama- please,” he whimpers, the word mama slipping out in a broken, desperate, stuttering cadence. he tries to thrust upward, but you slap his thigh, a sharp crack of skin on skin that makes him jump and whine.

“stay still,” you command, though you don’t stop the rhythmic, punishing grind. “no one has ever fucked you this good, huh? no one’s ever made you feel this small?”

“no one,” he gasps, his voice cracking, his head tossing back into the cushion. “y’feel so good- fuckin’ christ- please, just- jus’ keep doin’ it, please.”

he’s sobbing now, a frantic, needy sound that vibrates through his chest. as you pick up the pace, the sound fills the room- the wet, heavy slapping of his thick thighs and the rhythmic thud of his balls hitting you with every desperate surge of his hips. he’s trying to chase the peak, his muscles locking up, his legs trembling with the sheer exertion of trying to stay under you.

you keep the cruelty alive for a while longer, mocking the way he can’t even form a full sentence, the way he’s practically begging for mercy while his body betrays him, craving more. but as the friction begins to build into something unbearable, the anger starts to bleed out of you. the coldness softens. as your own breath hitches, the sight of him- so completely undone, so utterly ruined by you- starts to pull at something in your chest.

the victory feels hollow when he looks at you with that much devotion, and your movements slow from a punishment to a plea. you lean down, your bare chest brushing his, your voice losing its edge and becoming a low, breathless hum. “you’re so full of shit,” you whisper, though you’re clinging to his shoulders now, your fingers digging into his skin.

the tension reaches a breaking point. you can feel him shaking, his entire frame vibrating as he reaches the edge, his breath coming in short, jagged hiccups. you feel the heat of him, the desperation, and finally, you can’t fight the need to be filled again. “fuckin’ do it,” you gasp, your voice trembling. he doesn’t need to be told twice.

with one final, violent surge of his hips, he slams into you, his voice letting out a long, shattered keen as he empties himself deep inside you. the sensation triggers your own release- a sudden, crashing wave that makes your vision blur and your muscles seize. you crumble, your strength vanishing as you collapse forward, your forehead resting against his shoulder, your body shaking in the aftershock.

for a few moments, the only sound is the frantic, ragged synchronization of your breathing. you press a lingering, soft kiss to the pulse point of his neck, then move to his sideburn, the reality of the emotional wreckage between you crashing back down. you feel the weight of the game you both played, the bitterness of the heart play. but then, he moves.