Heyyyy it’s me again! I was wondering if you take requests? If so I was wondering if you could write a short story of Gerard x Reader (same trope where he is reader’s dad’s friend) and he gets jealous and possessive. Like maybe the two are out and reader sees a guy she knows and starts talking to him and Gerard gets jealous and instead of taking her home he takes her to his place and shows her who she belongs to hehehe love ur work!
Oh helllll yeah let’s dive right in!
CW: age gap, grooming not mentioned but def happened, known reader since they were born, SMUTT SMUT, hair pulling, degradation, ass spanking, fingering, p in v, possessive and obsessive mmc, kinda toxic dynamic cus he’s not a healthy man over reader, ROUGGHHHH SMUT, some dark undertones (I love dark n horror shit), overstim, dddne, 3 rounds! (poor pus pus 😔☹️💔)
If you don’t like it, don’t read it.
a/n: I’m getting into the groove of writing cus I used to write fics on like wattpad and ao3 back in the day (like 3 years ago) but I’ve never written smut before (other than my last post) so bare with me LOL. also my first one shot anddddd yeah. also idk how I feel abt this i might make another one shot and like make it better more smutty + emotions and just more, cus that’s what gets me going. I was kinda in a rush cus I’ve been on vacation for a week and had to like hide and write this LOLLLL. Anyway— here you go hope u like it!
The city goes by and you watch it. You watch the streetlights smear past the window and the occasional red of a stoplight bleeding across the dashboard, and you keep your hands folded in your lap. You don't look at him because you can feel exactly what you'd find if you did. You've known this man your entire life to know what his silences are made of. This one is made of something hot and pressurized and very, very controlled. The control is the part that gets you because it means he's choosing it. It means whatever is underneath it is big enough that he's decided it needs a lid.
The date had been good. It had been good, genuinely, the best kind of evening with him. It was the kind of date where everything is easy and warm and he looks at you across a table like you're the only fixed point in the room, and makes you feel it all the way down. He'd remembered the mushroom pasta. He'd caught your wine glass before it fell. He'd gotten quietly, thoroughly offended about your coworker and made you laugh so hard your eyes watered.
And then you went to the bathroom.
And then, the rest of it.
The way Gerard had looked walking toward you, face completely blank, that specific blankness that isn't emptiness, it's the opposite of emptiness, it's everything compressed to a single point behind his eyes. The way he'd pulled you into his side. The vein that seemed like it was about to burst, the one that you’d nicknamed “Nigel” since you were a little girl.
It's still there. That vein at his temple, Nigel, just faintly, the one that appears when he's past a certain point. His jaw is set and his hands are on the wheel. They’re holding on so tight his knuckles have gone pale, and he's staring at the road ahead like it personally wronged him.
He hasn't looked at you once since the restaurant.
His jaw tightens and he doesn't answer, doesn't turn his head, doesn't give you even the corner of his eye. His hands adjust on the wheel and the leather creaks under his grip.
"I just— I want to explain. It wasn' —"
"Don't." One word. His tone low and clipped and final, and you close your mouth.
He stops at a red light, and in the stillness you can hear him breathing slow and measured, the breathing of a man keeping himself on a very specific leash, and you watch his profile and feel the apology sitting in your throat where it's been stuck since the restaurant, and you don't try again. You know better, you know him too well to push right now. You know that whatever is happening in him needs space before it needs words, and you turn back to the window and watch the red bleed across the rain-damp street below.
The light goes green and he drives.
His hand comes off the wheel and lands on your knee and you go completely still. He doesn't squeeze, doesn't move. He just puts it there, heavy and warm and stares at the road, and you sit underneath that hand and feel owned. You feel it in your sternum, you feel it everywhere, and you do not move a single muscle for the rest of the drive home.
The sound of the door closing behind you is the starter pistol.
You're still two steps into the entryway, and still reaching back with the automatic gesture of pushing it fully shut, when his voice comes from right behind you. Close. Much closer than you'd realized he'd gotten.
"Bedroom." He says, not loud but worse than loud. It’s quiet, and certain, with that particular texture his voice gets when he's already decided every single thing that's going to happen and is simply informing you of it.
You go to the bedroom, and it’s dark— except for the streetlight through the curtains. You stand at the foot of the bed and you hear him come down the hall. His footsteps unhurried and heavy, the specific cadence of a man who is in no rush because there is nowhere for you to go. He appears in the doorway and he leans there a moment and looks at you standing in the half-dark in your dress and his expression is… God, his expression. Still that blankness thing he does. Still that compressed, controlled thing. But underneath it now is something that wants.
"Take the dress off," He simply states.
Your heart picks up as you listen to his command. You reach for the zipper and your hands are a little unsteady. It takes you a second and he watches every second of it, arms crossed, not moving to help, and you get it down and step out of it and let it fall and you're standing there in just your underwear in the thin amber light and his eyes move over you with the slow deliberateness of inventory, taking it all in. The look on his face when they reach yours is the look of a man who is furious at himself for how much he wants you.
Finally, he crosses the room and stops in front of you. He’s close enough that you can smell him, that dark amber skin-warm smell that you have loved for longer than you've had words for loving anything— and his hand comes up and grips your jaw firmly. His thumb pressing in at the hinge, holding your face still, tilting it up.
"You know what tonight is," he says.
Your throat moves under his grip. "It's— I'm apologizing. For—"
"For letting it go on. For not— for standing there and laughing like you weren't—" your voice catches, “…like you weren't right there,” you quietly finish.
Something moves behind his eyes. His thumb presses in harder. "On your knees."
You listen and you go down on your knees. The hardwood floor is cold and hard under your knees and his hand stays in your hair the moment you're down there, his fingers sliding in and gripping at the root, and you look up at him and the angle of it— him above you, your face tipped back, the low light catching the line of his jaw— does something complicated and hot to every nerve in your body.
He looks down at you for a long moment before saying,"You know what it looked like," he says, low. "You standing there… You laughing… That close," His grip tightens and you feel the pull across your scalp and your lips part. "You know exactly what it looked like from where I was sitting."
His free hand comes up and his thumb pushes into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, and you go quiet.
"I didn't ask you to talk," he says, his hazel eyes staring at you with an intensity that may be deemed as concerning. "I asked you to kneel. Those are two different instructions."
You close your lips around his thumb. His jaw shifts.
"Good." He pulls it free and looks at you. "Now you're going to tell me what you did."
"I…" you swallow, “…I let a guy hold me up for twenty minutes... I laughed at what he said. I forgot to—"
"You didn't forget," Gerard interrupts, "You got distracted. There's a difference." He crouches down in front of you, suddenly eye level, and the intimacy of it is its own kind of pressure, his face right there, his eyes moving over yours. You can see every beautiful wrinkle on his face, that mole on the tip of his nose. "I've spent years learning every single thing about you,” he starts, his eyebrows furrowing as he speaks, his voice soft but has a sharp edge to it, “Every version of your face. Every sound you make." His voice is very quiet now. "And I watched your whole face change when you were talking to him. Like I wasn't there. Like I didn't exist."
The guilt of it hits you properly and your eyes go hot and you blink hard. You didn’t mean to hurt him. You didn’t mean to make him feel bad at all. You hate that you did, you absolutely, wholeheartedly despise it.
"I know you didn't mean to," he murmurs, his thumb drags along your lower lip, almost gentle, almost, and then he stands back up. "Get on the bed. On your back," he states— his tone changing once again.
You get on the bed and he undresses the way he does everything— unhurried, deliberate, each movement exact. Shirt first. The pale skin of his chest and the softness of his stomach under the dim light. He continues undressing— the belt, then his jeans, his boxers, and by the time he's down to nothing you're already squeezing your thighs together and he looks at you doing it and his expression goes flat.
You open them as he gets on the bed and doesn't come over you yet. He just sits beside your hip, and his hand comes down on your inner thigh. His hand is warm and heavy, his fingers are splayed, and he just rests them there as his hazel eyes stay on your face.
"You're already wet," he says softly. Not a question. His fingers shift inward, barely, barely, tracing the crease of your thigh where it meets your hip, not touching where you need him yet. "Aren't you."
"I'm— I'm already wet, I—"
His fingers slide between your thighs and press, flat and firm, against your cunt through nothing because your underwear is long gone and the contact makes you gasp out loud. It makes your hips jerk up, and he pulls his hand away entirely making you whine for his touch.
"Try better," he says as he puts his hand back. Same pressure, same place, and this time you grip the sheets and hold on and try not to move and he watches your face do it. His fingers move through the slick of you, slow and exploratory, like he has all the time in the world, like your desperation is information he's collecting.
"So wet," he says reverently, almost to himself. "All that. All that for me." His fingers circle your clit without touching it directly and your thighs tremble, you bite your lip suppressing a moan. "You let him stand that close to you and then you come home and your cunt's soaked for me." His voice hasn't raised, hasn't changed, and it's somehow worse than if it had. "What does that tell you."
"That I'm yours," you say.
"Yeah," he says. "It does."
He pushes two fingers inside you.
The sound that comes out of you is immediate and unguarded, loud in the quiet apartment, and he curls them inside of you. Hitting that specific angle, that specific place that he's known since approximately the first time he touched you and has never once failed— and your back arches off the mattress and his free hand comes down flat on your stomach and pins you.
"I said stay,” he gives you a look as he works his fingers steady and merciless and his thumb finds your clit at last, and presses and the sensation is so immediate, so sharp after all that denial, that your eyes fill from pressure. The combination of his hands and his voice and the guilt still sitting in your chest and the fact that even when he's like this, especially when he's like this, you feel completely and devastatingly known. He adds another finger, making it three and you let out a loud moan.
"There she is," he says quietly. He watches the tears track down into your hair and he doesn't comfort you. "There she is. This is where you belong. Not out there making some guy feel special." His fingers drive deeper, harder, and your whole body clenches around them. "In here. Under me. Coming apart on my hand."
"I know— I know, I know—"
"I belong here—" your voice cracks, “…I belong to you, I always have, I'm sorry—"
His thumb presses harder and his fingers curl and you gasp. The orgasm hits and you clench so hard around his fingers your thighs shake and the noise you make is undignified and raw, and he watches every second of it with that dark intent focus. He watches you come apart and holds you down through all of it, works you until the last tremor and then keeps going one second past that just so you know he can.
He pulls his fingers free and brings them to his mouth. He your eyes as he licks them clean.
He flips you and it happens fast enough that you don't track it, just suddenly you're face down in the pillow with your hips pulled back, and his hand is in your hair pulling your head up, and his mouth is at your ear.
"This is a punishment," he says, low and level. "You remember that."
His hand comes down on your ass and slaps it hard. The crack of it fills the room and you cry out into the pillow, the sting blooming across your skin, immediate and bright and spreading, and before you've finished processing it he hits the other side and then his palm rubs slow over where he hit, warm and rough, and you shiver.
"You gonna let some guy hold you up for twenty minutes again?" he says.
He hits your ass again. Harder. You sob.
"No— no, I'm yours, I won't, I won't—" you desperately say.
"Good girl," he responds with those two words, sharp and precise, and the praise after the degradation makes you feel like you've been turned inside out. His hand smooths over your ass again, almost tender, feeling the heat he's put there. "Good girl. You're learning,” he softly says.
Then his cock presses against you— just the tip, the blunt heat of it at your entrance, not pushing in yet, its just there making you feel what's coming, and you press back instinctively and he pulls your hips back with one hand, and brings the other down on your ass again.
"What did I say," he says. "You take what I give you. You don't take more."
"Please what," He drags the head of his cock through the slick of you, slow, tip catching on your clit, and you whimper into the pillow. "Use your words,” he states in a condescending tone.
"Please— Gerard, please, I need you inside me, please—" you beg.
"Need me," he echoes. Something shifts in his voice, something that's almost satisfaction, almost hunger. "Yeah. You do." His hand tightens on your hip. "Remember that the next time you spend twenty minutes forgetting I exist."
He pushes in. It’s slow, so slow that you feel every thick inch of him. You feel the stretch of it, the vein-ridged drag of his cock opening you up, and your fingers claw at the sheets and you feel your eyes fill again and he doesn't stop, just keeps pressing in, steady and inevitable, until he's buried to the base and his hips are flush against you and you can feel him everywhere, his tip pressed so deep it sits right against that spot that makes your vision blur.
He holds it there. You can hear his heavy breathing as he’s stuffed inside of you, and he stays completely still inside you. His hand strokes, once, down your spine as he takes a deep breath through his nose.
"Feel that?" he says softly as he leans forward towards the back of your neck breathes you in.
"All of it," you say. "All of you, I feel— I feel all of you—"
"Good," He pulls back. "Hold onto something."
He drives forward and the sound that comes out of you echoes throughout the room.
He's not gentle, he’s not trying to be gentle. The rhythm he sets is hard and relentless, each thrust driving you into the mattress, the headboard hitting the wall in a rhythm that must be audible through the floor and he does not care. He has never cared, and you stop caring about thirty seconds in when your whole existence narrows down to the drag of him inside you, and the sound of his breathing going rough above you, and the slick obscene sound of your bodies together.
His hand finds your hair and pulls, wrenching your head back, and you cry out and your back arches and the new angle is insane and he groans, low and rough, the first real sound he's made.
"You're so fucking tight," he grits out. "Every time. Every fucking time."
"Gerard—" you whine as you fist the sheets.
"I know," he breathlessly says as hips don't slow. "I know," He pulls harder on your hair and bends over you, mouth at your ear, and his voice has gone rough now, scraped raw, the control cracking at the edges. "You think he would've known what to do with you? You think any of them would?" He thrusts so deep you sob. "Nobody knows what you need—“ Thrust. “Nobody knows this body like I do—” Thrust. “Nobody's going to take care of you like I do.” Thrust.
"Nobody," you cry. "Nobody—"
"That's right," His free hand snakes under you and finds your clit and your body seizes. "Nobody. Mine. You've always been mine." He works your clit with two fingers and fucks you and you can feel both at once and it's too much, it's completely too much, and the tears come freely now, not from pain, from the sheer overwhelming pressure of it, from feeling this loved and this punished at the same time, from the specific unbearable intimacy of being this known.
"I've got you," he says, rough and low. "I've always got you. Cry if you want. I've got you."
You come the second time screaming into the pillow.
He fucks you through it and doesn't slow and your sensitivity spikes so sharp you try to pull away, and his arm hooks around your hips and locks you in place and you take it, you take it, sobbing into the sheets, and he pulls out and rolls you onto your back, and you look up at him with wet cheeks and wrecked eyes and he looks down at you and something in his face goes very still.
"Two," he says breathlessly, his chest heaving as he brushes his hair out of his salt and pepper hair.
He sounds like he's been dragged over gravel. His chest is heaving slightly. His cock is slick and hard and flushed at the tip, a pearl of pre-cum at the slit, and he reaches down and fists himself slowly, watching your face, and you feel another pulse of heat through the oversensitivity.
"One more," he says. "You can give me one more."
"I can," you say immediately. "I can, please—" you plead. You just want to make it up to him. You’d do anything he says, anything— even if it’s a form of “punishment.”
Something in his expression breaks open, just for a second, and he moves over you, he’s knees bracketing your thighs, and kisses you.
His kiss isn’t rough, and that's what breaks you completely. He kisses you deep and slow and his hand cups your face, and his thumb brushes the wet off your cheek and he kisses you like you are the thing he has been trying to say all night, like everything in the restaurant and the car and this room has been preamble and this is the actual sentence.
Then he lines up and pushes in again and you gasp into his mouth and he swallows it.
This time is different— it’s still intense as his hips are rolling deep and hard, and his hands are pinning your thighs wide, forcing you to take the full depth of every thrust, the fat base of his cock stretching you open and the tip dragging against your front wall, your clit grinding against him with every forward push. But his face is different. He's stopped hiding it. He looks at you and lets you see it— the way he feels. He’s always felt love for you, that you’ve always known. Before you’ve started the relationship and even after, but sometimes you see the glimpse of his feelings, the years of it, the specific and total nature of the thing he has for you, the obsession dressed up as love or the love that grew fangs, you've never been entirely sure which and it doesn't matter, it's all the same thing in him.
"Look at me," he roughly says.
You look at him, and his face is sweaty and his hair is sticking, and his eyebrows are furrowed as he bites his lips and stares at you. "Don't stop," he whispers.
You don't stop, but then he reaches between you and presses his thumb to your clit and circles and your eyes try to close as you let out an undignified moan and he says “look at me” again, sharp, and you force them back open and hold his gaze and you watch his jaw go tight, watch his brow crease, watch the last of his composure crumble as he chases it alongside you.
"Mine," he says. Not commanding now, just stating it. Like a fact about the universe. "You're mine. You know that."
"I'm yours." Your voice breaks. "I'm yours, I love you, I'm yours—"
He shudders. "I love you," he says, rough and cracked and real, his forehead dropping to yours, and his hips stutter, and he comes buried so deep you feel it in your stomach, pulsing, throbbing, and the feeling of it tips you over and you come with him, clutching his shoulders, crying openly, his name in your mouth and your name in his and both of them tangled together in the dark.
He doesn't pull out, he holds you. His whole weight, careful not to crush you, but close, as close as two people can physically be, his face in your neck, his arms underneath you, his heartbeat against yours slowing down in stages. The both of you catching your breaths.
You cry for a little while quietly.. Not the sad crying, but it’s the type of crying that’s in regards to emotional relief of having been taken apart completely by someone who knows every piece, and will put them all back. He lets you, of course he does. His hand moves up and down your back, slow and steady, and he doesn't say “shh” or “stop” or “it's okay”— he just holds you and breathes and lets it happen.
Eventually your breathing evens out.
His lips find your forehead, then your temple, your cheek, the dampness underneath your eye.
"My good girl," he murmurs, and the words land somewhere so deep and soft you feel them in your bones. "My perfect girl. You did so good. You took everything." His mouth moves to your other cheek and kisses the wet off it, slow, thorough. "So perfect. You're so perfect."
"Don't," he says quietly. "Just let me say it."
He pulls back just enough to look at your face and his hand comes up and brushes your hair back and he looks at you, the studying thing he does, the really looking at you, the way he did at dinner, the way he always does, like you are the fixed point, like everything else is moving and you're the thing he uses to stay still— and something in his expression is so naked and unguarded and his that you feel tears threaten again for a completely different reason.
"You're mine," he says, softly now, almost wondering. "You've been mine since before you even knew what that meant. You know that, right?"
"Good," He presses his mouth to your forehead and stays. "Because there's no version of me that lets you go.” He explains with furrowed brows, his demeanor switching slightly, “There's not going to be one." His arms tighten around you. "I need you to understand that."
"Gerard." You put your hand on his chest, over his heart. "I'm here. I chose to be here. I keep choosing to be here."
There’s a silence, and you feel hisheartbeat under your palm, still elevated as you wait for a response.
"I know," he says. And then, quieter, like it costs him, "I know you do."
He pulls the blanket up over you both. Gets you tucked against his chest. His fingers move through your hair, careful and gentle over the places he'd pulled on earlier, and you close your eyes and feel the soreness in your body like a map of everywhere he'd been.
"You're still thinking about it," you say.
"I'll think about it until I'm dead," he says. "Doesn't mean you have to be awake for it."
You almost laugh. "Comforting,” you sarcastically remark.
"I'm not trying to comfort you." He softly says, his lips in your hair. "I'm trying to keep you warm. Go to sleep."
You go to sleep and his arms don't loosen, not once. You'll know this when you wake up, hours later, in the same position, his heartbeat slow and steady and there.
