#easy target

The car ride was absolutely silent, leaving you to feel as though you were suffocating. The scent of your shared shower, your shampoo and soap, clung to him, creating an intimacy that felt more violating than the sex. Not only was it an acknowledgement of what happened, but a claim, and he was wearing it proudly. You stared out the passenger window, interior fogging from the cold contrast of the outdoors, watching the familiar streets of your town blur into unfamiliar landscapes. Just as you’d demanded, no witnesses. 

Gerard’s fingers tapped a nervous, erratic rhythm on the steering wheel. He had a CD playing, and while you normally would make fun of the music he listened to, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. It was the same music you and Mikey would listen to when you would hang out. While he was inexperienced, the sex with him was great because of how enthusiastic and willing he was to learn. He could clean up, and look attractive. All in all, he really wasn't that bad. You shook your head at the thought. 

Every few minutes, his gaze would flicker from the road to you, a quick, hungry glance that felt heavy enough to be a physical touch. He had opened his mouth to speak a dozen times, only to open it again, mouth gaping like a fish out of the water, before deciding to close. He seemed content to simmer in the silence of your shared space. 

“You’re staring again,” you said flatly, not turning from the window, watching as small beads of condensation roll down the glass. 

“Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded pleased. “Just… you look nice. Really nice.”

You’d dressed with careful, calculated indifference: jeans and a simple top, nothing that screamed date. But under his gaze, it felt like you were wearing lace and satin. He had a way of making everything feel intentional, charged.

He reached down to the console, grabbing a pack of Marlboros before glancing at you. “You mind if I–?”

You shook your head no, and continued to watch the fleeing landscape, listening to the click of the lighter. He rolled down his window, inhaled, and tried his best to blow the smoke out of the small crack in the car. You breathed in the smoke, relishing in the freshness of it, appreciating it before it became stale and stuck to the interior of the car, your clothes, and hair. 

The restaurant he’d chosen, based on your "45 minutes away" rule, was a dimly lit Italian place that was trying too hard to be romantic. Red checkered tablecloths, Chianti bottle candles, instrumental music playing over the speakers, the whole cliché. It was exactly the kind of place a desperate virgin would pick for a first date, and the irony wasn’t lost on you.

A bored-looking hostess led you to a secluded booth in the back. Another point for Gerard; he’d either gotten lucky or had specifically requested it. You slid in, and he immediately took the seat opposite you, not across the table, but kitty-corner, so his thigh pressed against yours in the confined space.

You jerked your leg away. “Personal space, Gerard.”

He flinched, the puppy-dog hurt flashing in his eyes before it was replaced by a stubborn set of his jaw. “We’ve been a little past personal space, don’t you think?” he murmured, but he shifted an inch away.

Your nerves were on edge, the shot of rum you took before leaving your apartment having completely left your system. You desperately needed something to take the edge off, and you were willing to gamble the “date” that you were on that the waiter wouldn’t bother asking for your ID. A waiter appeared, and you ordered the first glass of red wine on the menu, asking him to leave the bottle. Gerard’s eyes widened, shoulders tensing, and you knew he was worried about you getting caught, but the man simply nodded before turning towards your date. Gerard ordered a Coke, fumbling with the menu. The dynamic was back: you, the experienced, slightly jaded college student; him, the awkward, loser, basement dweller. It was a comfort, a familiar script. You could handle this.

The wine came fast. You took a long, deep swallow, the bitterness a welcome anchor, and the two of you ordered. 

“So,” you started once the waiter left, swirling the dark liquid in your glass. The corners of your lips turned up, and your playful tone was nothing but. “This is your big date. You gonna try and hold my hand across the table? Feed me a meatball?”

He blushed, just as you knew he would. “I just…I just wanted to talk to you without Mikey, or a party, or…” He gestured vaguely, encompassing the bathrooms and basements of your recent history. “I want to know you. The real you.”

You barked a laugh, a sharp, ugly sound. Normally you would have covered your mouth out of embarrassment, but you didn’t care: you were in a restaurant where nobody would recognize you. You didn’t care how you came off to these people, let alone Gerard. “The ‘real me’? The real me thinks this is a fucking joke. The real me is only here because you’re blackmailing me.”

His face fell, and he looked down at his hands, clenched on the tablecloth. “I wouldn’t have… I didn’t mean it like that. I just needed you to listen.”

“Well, I’m listening,” you said, taking another sip of wine. Your eyes narrowed, and you reveled in how small and meek he seemed. “Go on. Impress me.”

He was quiet for a long moment, gathering his courage. When he looked up, his eyes were startlingly clear and intense, cutting through the dim light. “I know you think I’m pathetic. And I know I am. I live in my parents’ basement. I don’t know how to talk to people. I smell bad most of the time.” He said it all with a shocking lack of self-pity, just a statement of facts. “But when I’m with you… I don’t feel pathetic. I feel… real. And I see you. I see how you put on this act for everyone, this confident, perfect person. But you’re not. You’re messy, and you’re mean, and you’re scared. Just like me.”

Your blood ran cold. The wineglass felt slippery in your hand. Your throat was tight, but you managed to get out a sentence. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you get off on having power over me because you feel powerless everywhere else,” he said, his voice low but steady. “I know you’re terrified of anyone finding out about this because your entire life is about curating what people see. And I know that when you let go, when you stop thinking and just feel, you want me just as much as I want you.”

You were frozen, your carefully constructed walls cracking under the weight of his terrifying perception. This wasn't the script. The pathetic, desperate Gerard was supposed to stay pathetic and desperate. He wasn't supposed to see you. No one did, and that’s how you liked it. The walls you held up had been impenetrable so far, keeping everyone at an arms length. 

“Shut up,” you whispered, the venom lacking its usual bite.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You can lie to Mikey. You can lie to your friends. You can even lie to yourself. But don’t lie to me. I see right through you.”

The waiter returned with your food, a timely interruption that shattered the tension. You focused on your pasta, eating with a mechanical efficiency, the food tasting like ash. Tears pricked at your eyes out of frustration. You couldn’t go off on him in public, and you couldn’t just leave seeing as you came here with him. You took slow, quiet deep breaths through your nose, regulating your nerves. He picked at his own meal, his confidence seeming to waver without the confrontation to fuel it.

Halfway through the meal, you felt a pressure on your knee. You looked down. His hand was there, warm and heavy through the denim. By instinct, you went to shove it away, but your own hand stalled, hovering over his.

“Please,” he whispered, his thumb making a slow, tentative circle. “Just for a minute.”

And God help you, you let him. You sat there, in the dim romantic light, a bottle of wine half-empty in front of you, and let Gerard Way hold your knee. His touch wasn't demanding or lecherous; it was… reverent. And it sent a traitorous heat straight to your core. This was worse than the sex. This was quiet. This was real.

When the check came, you both reached for it. Your hands brushed, and a jolt, sharp and electric, passed between you. You snatched your hand back as if burned.

“I’ve got it,” he said, pulling out a worn leather wallet.

“With what money?” you snapped, the familiarity a defense.

He just gave you that small, knowing smile. You hated it. You hated how it made you feel. “I have my ways.”

When the time came for you both to leave, you led the way, with him close behind, large hand resting on the curve of your lower back. You let him, the cool air from outside contrasting from the warmth of the restaurant, of him. 

The ride home was a pressurized can, ready to explode. The silence was thick with the remnants of his confession, and the memory of his hand on your knee and lower back, a touch that had felt more intimate than anything that had happened in the shower. You stared straight ahead, your body humming with a confusing mix of fury and desire. He’d seen right through you, and the only way to re-establish power was to reduce this back to something physical, something you could control.

Gerard drove with a white-knuckled grip on the wheel, his gaze fixed on the road, but you could feel the tension radiating from him. He was waiting for you to break, to give him a sign.

You were on a dark, deserted stretch of backroad, about twenty minutes from your apartment, the trees a black wall on either side. The only light came from the moon and the dashboard, painting his profile in eerie shades of green and white.

“Pull over,” you said, your voice rough, cutting through the silence.

His head whipped toward you. “What? Why? Are you sick?”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “No. Just pull the car over. Now.”

He didn’t argue. He signaled, though there wasn't another soul for miles, and carefully guided the car onto the gravel shoulder, the tires crunching to a halt. The engine idled, a low, steady rumble.

“What’s wro—” he began, but you were already unclicking your seatbelt.

In the confined space, you moved with a predatory grace he’d never seen before. You climbed over the center console, ignoring the gearshift digging into your thigh, and settled yourself in his lap, straddling him. The driver’s seat groaned under the shifted weight.

His eyes were wide, his breath catching in his throat. “Wh-what are you doing?”

“Shut up,” you whispered, leaning in close, your lips hovering just above his. “You wanted real? This is real. No talking. No looking at me like that. Just this.”

You didn’t kiss him. You attacked him. Your mouth crashed against his, all teeth and desperation. It was a punishment and a reward all at once. He gasped into you, his hands flying up to grip your hips, his fingers pressing hard enough to bruise through the denim. He was already hard beneath you, the evidence pressing against your core, and a thrill of power shot through you. This, you could understand. This, you could dominate.

You broke the kiss, breathing heavily. “Touch me.”

His hands were clumsy in their eagerness, fumbling with the button of your jeans. You batted them away and did it yourself, shoving the fabric down your thighs just enough. He watched, mesmerized, as you then reached for his belt buckle. The metallic clink was deafening in the quiet car.

You freed him, his length hot and heavy in your hand. He let out a broken moan, his head falling back against the headrest. The dashboard light caught the sheen of sweat already forming on his throat. 

You held your hand out in front of him expectantly. “Spit.”

He complied, spitting into your hand, and you felt your pussy clenching on nothing from the act. You brought your wet hand down and rubbed it up and down his length, focusing on the tip, relishing in the whiny moan that left his lips.

“You see?” you breathed, positioning yourself over him. “This is all this is. This is all it will ever be.”

You sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion, swallowing his choked cry. It was uncomfortable, the angle awkward, the gearshift pressing into your side, thighs burning from being spread over his larger body. The car felt impossibly small, filled with the sounds of your ragged breathing and the slick, wet sounds of your bodies moving together. Electricity vibrated through your body, your clit grinding against him with each bounce. You set a brutal pace, using him for your own release, your hands braced against the roof of the car.

Briefly, your thoughts drifted to how this would look from the outside, windows fogged, car rocking back and forth. But that quickly left your mind as you felt him meet your hips with his, fucking up into you, making you squeal from hitting that sweet spot.

His eyes were screwed shut, his face a mask of overwhelmed ecstasy. His hands roamed your body, under your shirt, gripping your waist, mapping you out like he was trying to memorize you by touch alone. It was almost sweet seeing how much he loved to touch your body, even after having sex multiple times, it was like he was learning you all over again. 

The thought got you off more than it should’ve.

“Look at me,” you commanded.

His eyes flew open, hazy and unfocused.

“I said, look at me.”

He forced himself to focus on your face, and the intensity in his gaze was almost too much. You could see every raw, unhinged emotion: the worship, the obsession, the pathetic, all-consuming love. It should have repulsed you. It should have made you stop.

Instead, it pushed you over the edge.

Your orgasm ripped through you, a silent, shuddering wave that made your thighs clamp around him and your nails dig into the roof liner. You threw your head back, a strangled gasp escaping your lips.

Feeling you clench around him was his undoing. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you down on him as he thrust his hips up. A whimper left your lips from being too overstimulated, but he was too focused on chasing his own pleasure to stop. With a guttural, helpless groan, he came, his hips bucking up into you, his grip on your hips becoming almost painful. His whole body shuddered, and then went limp beneath you.

For a long moment, the only sound was the two of you trying to catch your breath. The windows were completely fogged, sealing you in your own humid, shameful world.

Slowly, you pushed yourself off of him, wincing at the soreness, and collapsed back into the passenger seat. Evidence of his and your release dribbled down your thigh, and you pulled your jeans up, the fabric cold and uncomfortable against your sensitized skin. He hurriedly tucked himself away, his movements sluggish.

You stared out the fogged window, at the nothingness outside. You’d done it. You’d reduced it to animal instinct. You’d taken back control.

So why did you feel like you’d just handed him the last remaining piece of yourself?

He cleared his throat, his voice hoarse. “I….”

“Drive,” you interrupted, not looking at him. “Just drive me home.”