“Is It Casual Now?”
2007 Gerard Way x Female Reader
Warnings: NSFW, Smut, public/semi-public sex, oral sex (female receiving), masturbation, just LOTS of angst.
Authors note: This one’s for the anon that requested a very angsty one inspired by Casual.
Word count: 4.5k
Masterlist.
«You said ‘Baby, no attachment.’»
You sat dissociating in the half empty lecture hall, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a swarm of persistent insects. The professor’s voice mumbled on about macroeconomics, but the words blurred into a meaningless hum to your ears. Your notebook lay open in front of you, the pages were almost fully blank with the exception of random quickly written notes with no relation at all to the syllabus of this class. During your bachelors degree, you had excelled. Your assignments were constantly praised as sharp and insightful, you earned praise from tutors who saw potential in your analytical mind. Maybe you should’ve stayed with that satisfaction. After a couple of years in the job market, you had decided to go back into studying, now in grad school. This masters programme had frustration gnawing at you. Assignments kept piling up, deadlines loomed, and your grades slipped, not from lack of intelligence, but from a fog of distraction and self-doubt that clouded your focus and confidence on what you already knew.
Friendships were not easy either. They were just a very fragile subject for you. Now at twenty-six, meeting new people felt like scaling a wet wall, especially romantically. Dates were straight up awful, conversations sucked, and you would end up retreating back into solitude, craving connection but paralysed by the risk of rejection.
That evening, you found yourself in Hoboken. Your friend, more like an acquaintance… Alex, a guitarist you knew through your older cousin who had played in the local scene years back, had scored tickets to a My Chemical Romance that same night. Alex had ties to the band from their early days, back when they were playing basement shows and DIY venues locally. “You should come on. Your cousin told me you’ve been struggling with life lately,” he had said over the phone. “It’ll be a blast. And who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone interesting.” You agreed, driven by the desperate need to break your god-awful routine.
After the show, Alex led you through the ocean of exiting fans. “The band’s heading to this dive bar nearby, Ray just texted me,” he said, his arm slung casually over your shoulder. “It’s a very low-key spot they like to unwind at. You should come meet them.” You nodded, following him into the night.
The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place with scratched wooden tables and a jukebox humming old rock tracks in the corner. The neon signs flickered, casting a reddish glow over the patrons huddled in booths. The band arrived shortly after, Gerard at the front, his black hair still damp with sweat from the performance, still in his stage clothes, tight black jeans, a worn stripe tee and a black jean jacket that clung to his frame. Alex greeted them with backslaps and laughter, introducing you amid the chaos. “This is my cousin by proxy,” he said, gesturing to you, as you shook hands saying your name quietly. “She’s also like a massive, crazy, stalker-level fan of yours, but don’t hold that against her.” The group bursted out laughing at Alex’s jokes, warm and unpretentious.
The conversation flowed around you. The men chatting reminiscences of old gigs, mishaps, inside jokes from the scene days, while you sipped slowly on a stout, the bitter foam coating your tongue, trying not to feel out of place as you just sat in silence.
Gerard caught your eye across the table, his hazel gaze steady and curious. He slid into the seat beside you, offering a shot glass filled with amber liquid. “Tequila shot?” he asked, his voice was soft. You accepted, the glass cool against your fingers. The liquor burned down your throat, warming your chest as you clinked glasses. Your conversation with him started easily after that. You talked music first, then the topic of horror films arrived, that sparked a deeper bond; you shared favourites, from classic slashers like Halloween to more obscure arthouse horrors. You nodded agreeing with everything he said, even if you didn’t actually think the same as he did, you let describing the unease of watching certain movies alone late at night.
The flirtation crept in subtly, first just a brush of his knee against yours under the table. More liquor shots followed, courtesy of Frank this time for the entire table, the alcohol loosening your inhibitions. “Do you wanna find somewhere we can heard each other better?” Gerard murmured, his breath warm against your ear. You nodded, your heart was pounding as he led you to a dark corner booth, partially obscured by a partition.
You slid into the seat first, the vinyl cool against your thighs through your jeans’ thin fabric. Gerard followed, his body close, thigh pressing against yours. The conversation shifted to more personal questions, words giving way to touches, his hand on your knee, tracing slow circles. You leaned in, lips meeting his in a tentative kiss that deepened quickly. His mouth tasted of tequila and lime, his was tongue exploring your mouth with a hunger that matched your own. His hands roamed, yours were just tangled in his black hair, pulling him closer, while his slid up your thigh, his fingers acted agile and insistent.
The make-out intensified, his breaths coming in ragged gasps amid, the low laughter from the group across the room making the low moans you were accidentally letting out. Gerard’s hand moved higher, pressing between your legs over the denim of your jeans. The friction sent sparks through you, your back arching instinctively under his touch. He broke the kiss to whisper, “You can’t make much noise here, you’ll get us into trouble.”
You shook your head, whispering back, “Please, don’t stop.” Emboldened, he rubbed harder, the seam of your jeans adding pressure against your clit, building a slow ache. The booth’s table hid your lower halves, the dim light also helped to conceal your acts. Gerard’s free hand cupped your face, pulling you into another kiss. The heat pooled low in your belly, your hips shifting subtly to meet his touch. With a quick glance to ensure privacy, he unbuttoned your jeans, zipper sliding down swiftly. His hand squeezed inside, past the waistband of your underwear, fingers finding slick warmth. You gasped into his mouth as he caressed your folds, parting them to circle your clit with precise, teasing pressure.
The sensation was extraordinary, his fingertips felt rough yet gentle, gliding over your sensitive wet skin. He dipped lower, one finger pushing inside you, curling to hit that spot that made your knees shake. Your hands gripped his shirt, your nails digging in as he added a second finger, thrusting slowly at first, then faster, his thumb pressing against your clit in rhythm. The wet sounds were silent but obscene, drowned by the bar’s ambient noise. You couldn’t help but feeling so exposed, thrilled by the risk of it all. His forehead against yours, watching your reactions with an intensity that bordered on vulnerability. His own arousal was very evident in the bulge straining his jeans, but he focused only on pleasuring you.
Tension coiled tighter, your muscles clenching around his fingers as he pumped deeper, the heel of his palm grinding against your lower stomach, putting pressure on it. “Come for me,” he murmured as his lips were brushing your ear. The orgasm crashed through you, waves of pleasure expanded from your core, your thighs were trembling as you bit your lip to silence a moan. He held you through it, fingers slowing but not stopping until you shuddered in aftershocks.
He withdrew his hand, wet with your release, bringing his fingers to your lips. “Lick them clean, sugar,” he said softly. You obeyed, tongue swirling over his digits, tasting your own musky bitter taste mingled with the salt of his sweaty palm. He watched, fixed on your mouth, and a small smile appeared on his lips.
“Can we see each other again?” you shy voice asked tentatively, hoping for more. Gerard paused, his expression shifting to one of gentle firmness. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “Well, yeah, I mean, I would really like that,” he said, “but you know, as long as it’s casual I guess.” You nodded, masking the unsettled emotional pain in your gut. “Baby, no attachment.”
You left the bar soon after, giving quick goodbyes to Alex and the band. “Another girl that he bangs on that fucking booth,” you heard Frank laugh, teasing Gerard. The feeling of your stomach sinking was overwhelming. The night air was cool as you left, keeping you from panicking. You commuted back to your apartment in a nearby town, the taxi rumbling beneath you, thinking about those last word, your body still buzzing from the encounter. Your skin tingling where he had touched, your lips swollen from his kisses. “Baby, no attachments”.
Arriving home, the apartment was quiet, your flatmate’s bedroom door was closed shut, soft light seeping underneath. You debated knocking on her door and telling her all about that night, spilling the details over midnight tea, seeking validation or advice. But the anxiety won, what if she judged you, called you foolish for jumping in so quickly? You slipped into your room instead, peeling off clothes, peeling off your still wet underwear, and slid under the covers naked.
«Knee deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out. Is it casual now?»
The days following that concert blurred into a haze of routine, with lectures, half-hearted attempts to finish your masters’ thesis, and the persistent ache of dissatisfaction. Your flatmate, Emma, noticed your distraction, raising an eyebrow over breakfast one morning as you stared blankly at your buttered toast. “Are you alright?” she asked, her English accent muffled by a mouthful of sugary cereal and soy milk. You nodded, forcing a smile, but didn’t mention the night at the bar, the memory of Gerard’s fingers still vivid, his words. “Baby, no attachments”, looping in your mind like a stuck record. You wanted to tell her, to dissect the encounter, to get a second opinion from a more functional adult, but the fear of her calling you naive or, worse, a fucking loser for chasing a fantasy thrill stopped you. Instead, you kept it all inside, letting it brew alongside your anxiety about failing grad school and the decaying friendships that felt increasingly like obligations.
A week later, your phone buzzed as you sat in your bedroom’s desk, surrounded by open and unread textbooks and crumpled scribbled notes. The screen lit up with a text: ‘Hey, it’s Gerard. We’re playing a show in Philly tomorrow. I can put your name on the guest list! Meet me after?’
Your heart lurched, a mix of excitement and unease. Your fingers were trembling, and typed back a quick: ‘Yes, sounds great.’
The prospect of seeing him again ignited something reckless in you, drowning out the voice that whispered about boundaries and possible disappointment. The drive to Philadelphia was a slog, couple of hours through grinding traffic, your car’s interior was packed with the smell of other cars’ exhaustion and the faint metallic taste of October rain on the horizon. You had originally planned to make the concert, but a late departure and a snarl of cars on the highway meant you arrived as the venue was emptying. The frustration knotted your stomach, you’d missed the show, the one thing you’d told yourself would justify the trip. You texted Gerard, expecting he’d be too busy or distracted to reply. To your surprise, he responded almost immediately: ‘Meet me at the lot behind the venue. Side gate, 10 minutes.’
You parked your hatchback in a nearby lot, the engine ticking as it cooled. You found the side gate, a chain-link barrier half-hidden by a dumpster, and waited, your pulse quickening with every distant shout or car horn. Gerard appeared, slipping through the gate with a graceful awkwardness, his hair damp from a post-show shower, wearing a black hoodie and jeans that hugged his frame. His hazel eyes caught your gaze, and a smile broke across his face.
“Hey, you made it!” he said, genuinely happy to see you. He didn’t mention the missed concert, and you didn’t bring it up, too shy to admit your poor organisation and the rain traffic had derailed your original plans. “Do you wanna hang out for a bit?” he asked, nodding towards your car parked a short distance away. You agreed, leading him to the lot, the gravel crunching under your shoes.
Inside your car, all you could smell were old coffee cups and the pineapple air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. You settled into the driver’s seat, Gerard in the passenger side, his knee brushing yours as he turned to face you. The conversation started light, he told you all about tonight’s backstage drama, his tiredness from the tour, a funny story about Mikey nearly falling off the stage the previous show. You listened to him in silence. The space between you crackled with unspoken sexual tension. His hand found your thigh, fingers tracing the seam of your jeans, and your breath stopped momentarily. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he murmured, his hazel eyes locked on yours.
You leaned in immediately, lips meeting his in a kiss that was hungry from the very start, the taste of mint gum he was loudly chewing was lingering in his mouth. His hands were quick, tugging at your shirt, sliding under your shirt to graze the skin of your waist’s soft skin. The creak of the car seat, the rustle of its fabric, the heat of his palms. You moved around, climbing awkwardly over the centre console to straddle his lap in the passenger seat, your knees pressing into the worn upholstery. He groaned softly, hands gripping your hips as you ground against him, feeling the hard line of his arousal through his jeans.
Gerard broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Lie back for me, my darling,” he ordered, guiding you to recline the driver’s seat. You complied, your heart was pounding as he knelt between your legs awkwardly, the gear stick digging into the side of his ribs but it seemed like he didn’t mind. He unbuttoned your jeans swiftly, tugging them down along with your underwear. The windows were fogging, you felt like a fucking teenager. Everything surrounding you was still and quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic, and the thrill of being so exposed made your blood race. The excitement of someone finding you like this, with him buried between your legs.
He kissed the inside of your thigh, his breath warm and teasing. “Tell me you want this. I need to hear it, please,” he looked up at you, his eyes darkened, awaiting for your response.
“Well, I obviously want it,” you whispered in anticipation. His mouth descended, lips brushing your folds before his tongue darted out, licking a slow stripe that made you gasp. The sensation was immediate, intense, his tongue circling your clit with precision, dipping lower to taste you fully. The wet heat of his mouth exhaling against your sex, the soft suction, it all sent pockets of pleasure through you, your hands gripping the seatbelt strap for leverage, as your eyes rolled back and your head fell limb against the seat.
Gerard’s enthusiasm was palpable, his moans were loud yet muffled, one hand braced on your thigh, the other slipping beneath his waistband. You glanced down, catching the rhythmic motion of his hand as he touched himself, clearly turned on by pleasuring you. He focused on your reactions, eyes flicking up to watch your face, adjusting his pace to your gasps and whimpers. “Jesus Christ— you’re unreal,” he murmured against you, the words muffled but fervent, his tongue digging deeper, lapping at your slickness with unrestrained hunger.
Your hips bucked, chasing the building pressure as he alternated between sucking your clit and fucking you with his tongue, the car filled with the obscene sounds of his mouth against your wet cunt and your ragged breaths. The twist in your core tightened, your thighs trembling as you neared the edge. “Gerard— Uhm, fuck, I’m close,” you gasped as he doubled down, lips sealing around your clit, sucking hard until you shattered. The orgasm ripped through you, waves of heat pulsing from your core, your hands tangling in his black hair as you rode it out, moaning his name loudly.
He didn’t stop immediately, licking you through the aftershocks until you pushed him up, shaky and oversensitive. His lips were glossy, his chin glistening wet, and just he smiled, a mix of pride and arousal in his expression. He sat back on the seat besides you, still stroking himself, and you watched, mesmerised with a satisfied smile on your own face, as he brought himself to his own orgasm, coming with a low groan, his head tipping back against the seat, cum spilling over his hand. The sight was raw, intimate, and you felt a pang of something deeper than lust. He brought up his hand to your mouth, you knew what you needed to do. You licked clean the cum off his hand.
Panting, you adjusted your clothes, the musky smell of sex flooded your car. “Can I stay the night at your hotel room?” you asked shamelessly. The drive and effort of coming here were getting to you. You’d driven hours, sat in traffic, missed the show, and now this… Surely he’d offer you a place to crash, you thought. But Gerard’s expression shifted, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “Oh, shit. I wish I could. Fuck…” he said gently, wiping the rest of his fluids on a napkin he found on your glovebox. “I just got an early bus call tomorrow. Are you okay to head back to Jersey tonight? Jesus, I’m so sorry. I’m feel like a massive asshole.”
The words stung, a sharp reminder of the boundary you’d agreed to but clearly hadn’t fully processed. You wanted to snap, to tell him you’d driven all this way, sat in gridlock, and all for what? A goddamn quick hookup in your car? That he hadn’t even told his bandmates you were meeting again, keeping you a fucking secret. But your tongue stayed heavy. “Yeah, sure,” you said instead, forcing a nod and a smile. You were the chill girl you tried to be.
You drove home, the highway stretching endlessly, taillights blurring through your windshield as traffic slowed again. Your phone buzzed at a light, Gerard’s text: ‘Had a great time. Thank you for coming! Sorry for the troubles, seriously. Can’t wait to see you again soon.’ The words that were meaning to praise you, sparked anger within you. You slammed your flip phone shut, tears pricking your eyes as you cursed him loudly and aggressively, your voice started to crack. “Fuck you, Gerard Way!” you screamed, the car’s hum swallowing your shouts. “Fuck your ‘casual’ bullshit! You can go to hell!” The anger wasn’t just at him, it really was at yourself, for chasing this, for letting hope creep in despite his very clear boundaries.
You stumbled into your apartment past midnight, slamming the entry door shut, the living room dark except for the glow of Emma’s laptop. She looked up from the couch. “Jesus, you look wrecked. What happened?” The dam broke, and you spilled everything, every detail: the bar, the texts, the concert you missed, the car, Gerard’s insistence on keeping it casual. Words tumbled out, your voice was very clearly ridden in frustration and shame.
Emma listened, her expression softening but blunt. “You’re kind of a fucking loser for this, babes,” she said, not unkindly, setting her laptop aside. “You’ve met this man twice, that’s it, and he was upfront from the start. He said, no attachments. You can’t even blame him. You’re chasing something he’s not offering. He’s not responsible for your feelings if you’ve agreed to his boundaries, you need to respect him too.” Her words landed like a slap, true but brutal. You nodded, sinking into the couch, next to her.
«Now when we kiss, I have anger issues.»
The weeks after Philadelphia were a slow bleed of frustration. Grad school was a relentless grind consuming you alive and slow. Readings you couldn’t focus on, seminars you RSVP’d but never attended, grades that slipped further from your grasp, a stark contrast to your undergrad brilliance. You wanted to be the chill girl, who held her tongue and gave him space, the one who could handle a casual fling with him, but the effort felt like a lie you told yourself. His texts came irregularly, always late, always brief: ‘In NJ for a break!! You around?’ or ‘I miss you crazy. Hang out?’ Each time you read them you felt angry. Gerard was thirty years of age and texting you like a horny teenager, he could go to hell. But each one pulled you back, again and again, your impulsive idealism drowning out the unease that knotted your stomach.
You wanted to say no, to reclaim some control over your own body and your long-lost dignity, but the memory of his touch, his intensity, his fucking mouth and those fingers… It all made resistance feel futile.
This time, he was back in New Jersey, off tour for a few days. You’d texted him first this time. A quick text with your address in a moment of reckless evening thoughts, panicking over your still unfinished thesis: ‘Come over if you’re free.’ Having him in your apartment felt like a power shift, a chance to set the terms. Emma was out for the night, leaving the place quiet, with the faint citrusy smell of a candle you’d lit to calm your nerves. You cleaned everything obsessively, shoving books under the couch, wiping down surfaces.
Gerard knocked softly. You opened the door, and there he was: black jacket, messy hair, curling at the ends, hazel eyes catching the hallway’s dim light. “Hey!” he smiled. He stepped inside, bringing the scent of cigarette smoke. You offered him a glass of wine, the cold bottle of red sweating in your hand, and his fingers brushed yours as he took it.
You settled on the couch, the TV playing a muted slasher flick, the one you were taking about the first night you met. Conversation flowed at first: he told you about the sketches he had done for a new comic he had in mind, fun stories about the tour. His knee pressed against yours, and when he leaned closer, the shift was seamless.
The kiss you shared was immediate, it was hungry, his lips tasting of red wine and faint mint, his tongue hunting inside your mouth with a need that matched yours. You straddled his lap, hands tangling in his hair, feeling the heat of his body through his shirt.
He groaned softly, his hands sliding under your top, his sweaty palms felt warm pressing against your waist. The familiarity of his touch was intoxicating, but a flicker of anger stirred. Again, you were not even angry at him, but at yourself, for falling into this once more. You ignore all those reasonable thought, deciding to focus on the moment, the way his breath hitched as you ground against him.
“Do you want to show me to your room?” he murmured. You led him down the hall, floorboards creaking, your bedroom was small but intimate, lit by a single lamp on your messy desk, casting soft shadows. Your room smelt of your perfume and the faint must of old textbooks piled on your desk. You pushed him onto the bed, a boldness you didn’t expect to actually have in you, and he grinned, leaning back. “Do you want to take the lead tonight, baby?”
You froze for a second, straddling Gerard’s lap on your bed, his hands resting lightly on your hips, that familiar smile appearing on his lips. The word “baby” lingered im your brain, stirring a sudden clarity. The high of lust that had clouded your judgment, in the bar, in your car, in every impulsive text… it was all vanished now. You saw it clear now: this wasn’t what you wanted. Not like this. Not like this... You slid off his lap, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. Your hands trembled as you smoothed your shirt, avoiding his gaze. “Gerard, I can’t do this,” you said.
He sat up, confusion crossing his face, his hazel eyes searching for yours. “Hey, what’s wrong?” His tone was gentle and concerned. He shifted to the edge of the bed, giving you space. “Talk to me.”
His kindness made your chest tighten. Why did he have to be so fucking understanding? You turned away, gripping the edge of your cluttered desk to steady yourself. “I need you to leave… Please?”
Gerard blinked, caught off guard. “Leave? Okay, yeah, I’ll go if that’s what you need.” He stood slowly, hands raised slightly, showing no pressure. “Are you sure you’re okay, sugar?”
That calm respect fuelled your anger. You spun to face him, tears spilling over. “I need you to sop being so fucking nice!” you snapped, you finally did. “You’re making this so much harder. I can’t keep pretending this is casual when it’s not for me!”
His brow furrowed. “I thought we were on the same page. I’m sorry. You said you were cool with it.” His voice stayed calm, but confusion lingered. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would never do that, not purposefully.”
“Casual, right?” you spat, stepping closer, fists clenched. “Is this casual enough for you, Gerard? Me driving for fucking hours in the rain, missing your show, hooking up in my car like some desperate whore groupie? I’m falling apart, and you’re calling me baby and sugar!” Your voice broke, rising to a shout. “I’m failing classes, I can’t focus on my goddamn thesis, I’m losing my friends, chasing you while you keep it ‘light’! I hate how much I want you when you don’t want me like that. And the worst part is that none of this is your fault.”
Gerard flinched, guilt flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t know it was this deep for you,” he said softly. “I thought we were having fun. I’m sorry. What do you want me to do?”
You shook your head, throat tight. “You can’t fix it. I need you to go and leave me alone. I can’t do this halfway thing. It’s tearing me apart.”
His face fell, a flicker of hurt crossing his features. “Okay,” he whispered. “If that’s what you need, I understand.” He grabbed his jacket, hesitating at the door frame of your bedroom. “I’m just so sorry.”
You didn’t respond, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as sobs threatened. He lingered a moment, then left, the front door’s soft click echoing in the quiet apartment. You sank onto the bed, tears flowing freely, body shaking. The room felt empty, but there was relief in the silence. You’d drawn the line. It hurt, but you’d taken back a piece of yourself. Emma found you an hour later, curled up, eyes red. She sat beside you, pulling you into a hug. “You did the right thing,” she said softly. “You deserve more than half of someone. You’ll get through this, you’re a big girl.”
You nodded, leaning into her. It wasn’t closure at all. “It feels wrong.”