sammie!!

I mean. Look at him.

P.S- quick lore drop -my banner photo is one of my cats, Jonathan. I have five babies. I pretty much became a crazy cat lady as soon as I started living on my own. Here’s the rest of them<3

First one is Jonno, then Milo, then Otis, then Xena, then Benji. They are all rescues except for Jonno and Benji, who were strays :)

Also, fics coming soon! Promise! Been a hard month guys, gotta say, May was NOT. IT.

You’re touring with My Chemical Romance in the early 2000s, and you and Gerard Way have already crossed every line except the one you refuse to name.

You sleep in the same bed every night. Not occasionally—every night. It’s expected at this point. You curl into him without thinking, his arm always finding its place around you. Your fingers lace together like muscle memory. He presses absentminded kisses into your hair when he thinks you’re already asleep.

The band teases you constantly.

“You guys are literally a couple,” they’ll say.

You both laugh it off every time.

“Best friends.”

But it doesn’t feel like just that. Not really.

—

The teasing from other people, though—that’s what gets to you.

Not the band. Never them.

But comments from outsiders. Jokes that go a little too far. The way people look at you when they find out you’ve never done anything, like it’s something to fix.

You try not to care.

But one night, it sticks.

You end up back on the bus quieter than usual, tucked into Gerard’s side like always, your head against his shoulder. His hand is already wrapped around yours, thumb brushing slow patterns against your skin.

He notices immediately.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs.

You shrug at first, but he doesn’t let it go. He never does with you.

So eventually… you tell him.

Not perfectly. Not all at once. Just enough for him to understand—you’re tired of feeling like you’re behind, like it’s something wrong with you.

He goes still.

Not awkward. Not distant.

Just… focused.

“That’s bullshit,” he says quietly. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I know,” you say, even though it doesn’t fully feel true. “I just don’t want it to be… this big thing anymore.”

There’s a pause.

You’re still holding his hand. Neither of you even thinks about letting go.

And then, before you can overthink it—

“…would you help me?”

The words come out softer than you expected.

But they’re there now.

He freezes for a second—not pulling away, not reacting badly—just processing.

“Help you how?” he asks, gentle, careful.

You glance down, suddenly nervous in a way you’ve never been with him.

“Just… you. I trust you.”

That hits him.

Hard.

Because this isn’t random. This isn’t about anyone else.

It’s him.

Out of everyone—you chose him.

He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to steady himself.

“You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” he says first, firm but soft.

“I know,” you reply. “That’s why I asked you.”

Another quiet moment.

His thumb brushes over your hand again, slower now—more intentional.

“You’re not scared with me?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“Never.”

And something in his expression shifts.

Not tension—something warmer. Deeper.

He looks at you like he’s realizing the weight of what you just gave him. Not pressure… trust.

A lot of it.

“…then we go slow,” he says quietly. “At your pace. You don’t have to do anything, okay? I’ve got you.”

That’s the moment it changes.

Because he’s not treating it like something to take from you.

He’s treating it like something he’s been trusted to protect.

You move a little closer without thinking—like you always do—but now it feels intentional. His hand tightens slightly around yours, grounding, steady.

“I just want you to feel okay,” he adds, softer now. “Good. Safe.”

There’s something almost disbelieving in the way he looks at you after that.

“…you really asked me,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You smile a little. “Yeah.”

He huffs out a quiet breath, shaking his head slightly—not in disagreement, just… overwhelmed in a quiet way.

“God, I’m lucky,” he says under his breath.

That’s the breaking point.

Not dramatic. Not explosive.

Just the moment where everything you’ve been pretending isn’t there… finally is.

I luvd this request. Your writing style is really nice and satisfying to read! I was going to post this last night, but got cut short. Sorry for the wait! I’m a bit backed up on requests right now but I will get to y’all soon!

Forgive me if the fic is a bit cringe

—

The question hangs in the air between you, vibrating with the hum of the bus engine and the distant snoring from the front lounge. Gerard’s eyes—kohl-smudged, always too intense for his own good—fix on yours with a weight that makes your breath catch.

“You really asked me,” he repeats, and his voice has dropped to that register, the one he uses on stage when he’s bleeding his heart into the microphone, except this is quieter. Just for you.

“Yeah,” you say, because there’s no taking it back now. You don’t want to.

The hand holding yours lifts, and suddenly his palm is cradling your jaw, thumb brushing the hollow beneath your ear. His touch is trembling slightly. “You know this changes everything,” he says. Not as a warning, but as a promise. “We can’t go back to ‘just friends’ after this, Y/N. I don’t think I could pretend anymore.”

Your heart hammers against your ribs. “I don’t want to pretend.”

Something breaks open in his expression then—that careful, performative indifference he wears like armor cracking wide to show the raw, wanting thing beneath. “God,” he whispers, leaning his forehead against yours. “You’ve been sleeping in my bed for six months. Six months of me dying slowly because I thought—” He cuts himself off, laughing a little, desperate. “I thought if I touched you the way I wanted to, I’d ruin it. That you’d think I was just another guy trying to—”

“You’re not,” you interrupt, “I know you’re not.”

He closes his eyes. “Yeah. Okay.” When he opens them again, the look he gives you scorches. “Back lounge,” he says softly. “The others are asleep. And I want to be able to look at you.”

The walk back feels like floating. Your hand stays locked in his, fingers threaded tight, and when you pass Frank’s bunk—he’s snoring loud enough to wake the dead—you both suppress hysterical giggles that feel like relief more than humor.

The back lounge is dim, lit only by the passing streetlights that stripe through the tinted windows. It smells like Gerard—cigarettes and coffee and that vanilla shampoo he uses because he claims it reminds him of his mom’s kitchen. You’ve been back here a thousand times, curled up on the torn pleather couch watching bad horror movies, but now the space feels charged, holy.

Gerard sits first, pulling you down beside him, but not on him—giving you space, always giving you space. “Hey,” he says, turning your face toward his with a gentleness that makes you want to cry. “We don’t have to. We can just sleep. We can just keep doing what we’ve been doing. I don’t need—”

“I need,” you whisper. “I want it to be you. I want to stop being afraid that it’ll hurt, or that it’ll be wrong, or that I’ll regret it. I know I won’t regret you.”

He makes a sound like he’s been punched in the chest, and then his hands are framing your face, and he’s kissing you.

It’s not the first time—there was that night in Jersey, drunk on cheap wine, a messy press of lips that you both pretended was platonic; the morning in Chicago where he kissed your temple and you turned your head just so, catching the corner of his mouth—but this is different. This is consecrated. His lips are soft, reverent, moving against yours with a patience that makes you dizzy.

“Slow,” he breathes against your mouth, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead on yours. “Tell me to stop anytime. Tell me to slow down. I don’t care if we do nothing but this—just kissing you until the sun comes up. I’ve wanted to for so fucking long.”

You slide your hands up his chest, feeling his heart hammering there, wild and racing. “Don’t stop.”

The way he looks at you then—you feel it in your toes. Like you’re art and oxygen and the answer to every question he’s ever scribbled in the margins of his lyric books.

He lays you back against the couch cushions—your couch, the one where you’ve cried over homesickness and laughed until you choked—and covers your body with his, but barely. He’s holding himself up on his elbows, caging you in a sanctuary of his arms. Every touch is a question: *Is this okay?* His hand skims your waist, thumb tracing the strip of skin where your shirt rides up. *Yes.* His mouth finds your neck, teeth grazing lightly, soothing the sting with his tongue. *Yes.* When his fingers brush the button of your jeans, he stops, looking down at you with dark, blown-pupil eyes.

“Tell me,” he begs, voice rough.

“Yes,” you say, arching up to meet him. “Please, Gee.”

The sound he makes is inhuman, a growl of restraint, and then he’s unbuttoning you with trembling hands, sliding the denim down your legs, pressing worshipful kisses to your hipbones, your thighs, anywhere but where you’re aching for him—because he’s determined to make this about *you*, about undoing the knot of shame that’s been coiling tighter in your stomach every time some asshole backstage smirked and asked if you were “saving yourself for Jesus or something.”

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs against your stomach, looking up at you with those devastating eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re not behind. You’re not broken. You’re just... mine. Finally.”

“Yours,” you agree, reaching down to tangle your fingers in his dyed-black hair. “Show me.”

And he does.

He goes so slowly you’re trembling with it, shedding his own clothes piece by piece at your shy request, letting you look your fill at the constellation of moles on his shoulders, the scars on his arms, the sharp lines of his hips. When he finally covers you again, skin to skin, it feels like coming home to a place you’ve never been but always knew existed.

The first time he pushes inside you—gloves on, condom from his wallet that he shows you with a blush because he’s been carrying it for three months “just in case, hopelessly, idiotically”—it burns, but his mouth is on your ear, whispering, *“Breathe, baby, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, look at me,”* and you do. You look at him, and you see a man who would tear the world apart to keep you safe, who has been waiting not to take something from you, but to be given the gift of your trust.

It’s messy and imperfect and when it’s over—when you’re both gasping, tangled in a blanket that smells like Doritos and dryer sheets—he doesn’t roll away. He stays inside the circle of your arms, pressed against your chest like he wants to crawl into your ribcage and live there.

“Hey,” he whispers, kissing your closed eyelids, your nose, your chin. “You okay?”

You feel the tears before you realize you’re crying—not sad, just... unburdened. “Yeah,” you choke out, laughing wetly. “Yeah, I’m... I’m good. I feel...”

“Safe?” he guesses, wiping your tears with his thumb.

“Loved,” you correct, and watch his face crumple with joy.

He pulls you tighter, arranging your limbs around him the way you’ve done a hundred times in his bunk, except now there’s no pretense. His leg thrown over yours is claiming. His hand cupping your breast is owning. When he kisses your shoulder and murmurs, *“Mine,”* into your sweat-damp skin, you don’t laugh it off.

You say, “Yours. Finally.”

Okay this is lowkey cringe and erotic and totally not proof read I’m sorry sugar

—

The basement smelled like mildew and cigarette smoke, the kind of stale, permanent damp that never quite left the concrete walls. You were sitting on the edge of the unmade bed—just a mattress on the floor, really—and the cold was seeping through your jeans, making your thighs tense. But underneath, you were already hot, a low throb between your legs that had started the moment you heard his footsteps on the stairs above.

When Gerard finally came down, backlit by that bare bulb, you felt it in your chest first—a sharp, physical ache. His black hair was stringy with sweat from the show earlier, eyeliner smudged into bruise-like shadows. That faded Crimson Ghost t-shirt hung off him, making him look breakable. You wanted to wreck him. You wanted to keep him safe. The contradiction made you press your thighs together.

He stood at the bottom for a moment, and you could see his hands shaking from across the room.

"Hey," he said. His voice cracked, and you felt the sound between your ribs, warm and startling.

You held out a hand. He took three quick steps forward and grabbed it, fingers ice-cold and trembling against your palm. The contrast of his fear against your steady, thrumming want made you dizzy. When he sat down beside you, the mattress springs groaned, and his knee bounced hard enough to rattle the loose change in his pockets. The vibration traveled through the thin mattress and into your hip.

"You're nervous," you said. Your voice sounded lower than usual, thick with the heat coiling in your gut.

Gerard laughed, sharp and anxious. He dragged his hand through his hair, and you watched the line of his throat work as he swallowed. "I'm gonna be terrible at this," he said, staring at the floor. "I just— I want you to know, before we—I haven't. This is. I mean, obviously you can probably tell, but I just—"

He was spiraling. You turned, cupping his jaw. His skin was fever-hot, clammy against your fingers, and he leaned into the touch immediately, eyes squeezing shut. Your thumb brushed his cheekbone, and you felt the fine tremor running through his jaw muscles. It made you wet—shamefully, instantly—the way he submitted to the touch, the way he needed direction.

"Gerard," you said quietly. "Look at me."

He did. His mouth was slightly open, breath coming fast and warm against your wrist. He looked terrified and desperate, and you wanted to swallow both feelings whole.

"We don't have to," you said.

"No," he said immediately, clutching your wrist. His grip was surprisingly hard, fingernails digging into your skin. "No, I want to. I really fucking want to. I just don't want to fuck it up. I want to be good for you."

*Good for you.* The words hit low in your stomach, a pulse of heat. You leaned in, kissing him. He made a small, wounded noise against your mouth, opening up immediately, letting you guide the pace. He tasted like cigarettes and the metallic edge of adrenaline, and when his tongue touched yours, clumsy and eager, you felt it between your legs—a clench, a wetness soaking into your underwear.

When you pulled back, his lips were red and wet. He was breathing hard, staring at your mouth with such open hunger that your nipples tightened against your shirt.

"Take your shirt off," you said.

He obeyed with shaking hands, peeling the cotton up. You watched the lean stretch of his torso, the ribs visible beneath translucent skin, the sparse trail of dark hair leading from his navel down. When he reached for his jeans button, you stopped him.

"Let me," you said.

He nodded, swallowing audibly, and let his hands fall. You undid the button, the zipper. He wasn't wearing anything underneath. He was hard, flushed dark against his pale stomach, and when the air hit him, he shuddered. You felt a corresponding throb in your core, an emptiness that ached to be filled.

"Fuck," he whispered. "Sorry, I'm just— I'm really—" He gestured vaguely at himself, embarrassed.

"You're beautiful," you said, and meant it. The sight of him—stripped and vulnerable and hard for you—made your breath catch.

His face crumpled slightly, like he might cry. He bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut. "Please," he said, barely audible. "Please, I need you. I need—tell me what to do. I'll do whatever you want, just tell me."

You pushed him back gently until he was lying flat. He went easily, compliant, his hair spreading across the pillow. You stripped efficiently, watching his face as your clothes came off. His eyes tracked every inch of skin you revealed, dark and glassy, hips twitching upward. When you climbed over him, naked, the cool basement air hit your breasts, your stiff nipples, but you were burning between your legs.

You reached down to guide him, and your fingers were slick with your own arousal before you even touched his cock. The realization made him gasp.

"Tell me if it's too much," you said, positioning yourself.

"Okay," he choked out. "Okay, okay—"

You sank down slowly. The stretch was intense—he was thick, hot, pulsing inside you—and you felt every inch of your walls yielding around him. He was shaking his head back and forth against the pillow, mouth open in a silent cry, and the visual of him falling apart combined with the fullness between your legs made you groan, low and guttural.

"Oh god," he choked out. "Oh fuck, oh— you're— I can't—" He arched up, burying his face in your shoulder, breathing hard and fast against your neck. His ribs were sharp beneath your palms, rising and falling rapidly. "Is it—is this okay? Am I—"

"You're perfect," you said, settling fully onto him. You were so wet he slid deep, and the base of him pressed against your clit, sending a spark up your spine. You clenched around him experimentally, and he sobbed against your collarbone.

"Move," you whispered against his ear. "Please, Gerard."

He nodded frantically and rolled his hips upward, clumsy and too eager. The angle was wrong, too shallow, and he immediately lost his rhythm, gasping. "I don't—I don't know how—"

"Slow," you said, guiding his hands to your hips. His fingers dug in, holding on for dear life. "Just follow me."

You set the pace, rolling down onto him, grinding your clit against his pelvic bone with each downward stroke. The friction was perfect, building heat in tight circles. He followed, thrusting up with a desperation that was almost painful to watch, but the stuttering, unpracticed snap of his hips hit a spot inside you that made your vision blur.

He kept his face buried in the crook of your neck, whining high in his throat with every movement. He was wet with sweat, skin slick where it touched yours, and he kept saying your name, over and over, like a prayer. The sound of it, broken and reverent, wound tighter in your belly.

"Please," he gasped. "Please, I need— tell me I'm— am I—"

"You're so good," you told him, running your hands through his hair. It was damp with sweat, clinging to your fingers. "You're doing so good, Gerard. Just like that."

You were climbing now, the pressure building at the base of your spine, your thighs trembling where they bracketed his narrow hips. Every time he thrust up, trembling and uncertain, you ground down harder, chasing the friction. He was filling you so completely, the heat of him radiating through your belly, and the contrast of his fragility—those sharp hipbones, the trembling ribs—against the solid, insistent presence of him inside you was pushing you toward the edge.

"Please," he choked out, and you realized he was trying to hold back, his whole body rigid with the effort.

"Let go," you gasped, your own orgasm cresting, breaking. "Gerard, I'm— I'm coming—"

You clenched around him hard, your back arching, head falling back as the waves hit. It was intense, drawn out by the way he stilled inside you, overwhelmed by the sudden tightness, gasping your name like a question.

He shattered. His back arched off the bed, head thrown back, throat working as he came with a long, broken moan. You felt the pulse of him inside you, hot and sudden, and the knowledge that you had wrecked him, that you had taken him through his first time and made him come undone, sent aftershocks rippling through your clenching muscles. He kept thrusting through it, desperate and messy, until you guided him still, holding him as he shook apart, your own body still fluttering around him, sensitive and wet.

Afterward, he didn't pull away. He stayed inside you, softening but still present, clinging, his breathing slowly evening out against your collarbone. You could feel his heartbeat against your breast, rabbiting fast, then slower. Your hands traced the sharp ridges of his spine, feeling the last tremors work their way through his thin frame. You were slick between your thighs, sticky with him and you, and the air was cold on your sweaty back, but under your palms, he was warm, real, alive.

"Was that—" he started, voice rough. "Was it okay?"

You lifted your head. His hair was plastered to his forehead, eyeliner completely ruined, running in grey streaks down his temples. He looked wrecked. He looked beautiful. You felt a surge of tenderness so sharp it hurt, mixed with the lingering throb of satisfaction between your legs.

"Come here," you said, rolling off him and pulling him into your arms.

He curled into you immediately, tucking his long limbs against your body, burying his face in your chest. He was still shaking, but slower now, the aftershocks leaving his system. You wrapped your legs around him, keeping him close, your hand stroking the damp hair at his nape. Your body felt heavy, satisfied, the ache between your legs a sweet reminder.

"I didn't last long," he mumbled, embarrassed, his breath hot against your skin.

Also Gerard: dressing like this in photo shoots.

THIS PHOTO ^^

!! Imagining !!

Imagine art student Gerard..(idc what era this photo is from I’m pretend he’s an art student because he looks so cutesy and nerdy and looks like he’d be stressed from allll the hard hard work he’s doing!)

Art student Gerard, you being a student at the same uni, and y’all’s last class of the day lines up on Fridays.

Gerard is STRUGGLINGGGGG like his art style is already pretty unique- it often explores more abstracts ideas, which are ideas the professors just can’t understand.

Imagining you two finally making it out of that class and walking around the city until midnight. It’s chilly, and y’all walk oh so close together, but oh so far away at the same time :,)

Him complaining, you listening, him suddenly becoming aware of how much he’s been talking about himself and his problems, turning the spotlight to you.

“Thank you for listening..sorry I kinda went on a rant there. How’ve you been…?”

You mention that you’ve been fine- aside from burnout getting to you and all that. Sometimes you wish there was a place where you could just sit and enjoy a cup of something warm without the weight of constant assignments on your shoulders.

He says “oh, well my place is always available for that.”

The tone he’s using suggests it’s sarcastic, but his eyes contradict it with complete seriousness.

Aaa thank you! And I totally agree, there’s like literally no ryro stuff out here. 😔

Awh, thank you. This actually means so much to me- I didn’t think anyone would notice!! I’ve always wanted people to be parasocial about me…

And yes, I’m okay. Apart from some social issues etc.

I actually have a boyfriend now…(yeah..this fag has a boyfriend, right?!)

Anyways, if yall requested something I’d *probably* write it? It’s worth a shot !! I’d just probably stick to one-shots. Maybe continuing that brit!ryan Ross x reader if I find motivation. The main reason why I stopped doing this was because of motivation- i had a ton of requests built up but I didn’t let myself feel pressured to do anything I didn’t want to do.

However … if you guys have any questions about me, personally, I’d LOVE to answer those! I team to be questioned….

I am still somewhat active on here and I do see yalls requests, I just might not get to them/want to do them.

That’s all, love ya!!