hihi ! now run with me here instead of basement gee can it be basement reader🙇♀️? reader is a pervert !! gee finds that out one day and he’s mean abt it but into it obviously so he calls us pathetic and disgusting virgin or something idk eat me up
i hope this is a good ask ! (i would like to be 🐾anon if that’s pawsible ૮ ⍝ ⸝⸝ ⍝ ྀིა)
CANNIBALIZING SEDUCTION
pairing: basement! reader x gerard way
m.list
Welcome to the lab, 🐾 anon. Your chart’s been pulled, your vitals logged, and those little pawprints are officially authorized for future check-ins. Here at the lab, we thank you for your exceptional specimen!
CW: afab, you still live your parents basement, messy environment, you're also obsessed with anime and are chronically online, mean gee, degradation, humiliation, rough sex, unhealthy power dynamics, slightly dubious, oh yea you get slapped, sexual objectification, no aftercare.
wordcount: 5589
The basement has eaten whole days before, but today it feels like it’s swallowed you down to the bone. It’s warm, stale, and humming with the soft mechanical groan of your ancient PC tower as it struggles to keep up with the twenty-seven tabs you’ve opened on Newgrounds.
You don’t bother pausing the page you’re scrolling. There’s a thread titled “Which anime girl could actually kill u IRL?” with way too many oddly detailed posts. The monitor glow paints everything in this sickly, addictive blue: your knees pulled to your chest, your oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder, the half-crushed ramen cup by the foot of your bed, the heap of figurines slumped like exhausted witnesses to your crimes.
The air is thick with your scent. Warm skin, leftover cheap vanilla body mist from yesterday or the day before, something like powdered sugar and old paper, and that unavoidable dampness basements always have, like a thrift store that’s been sealed shut for winter. Clothes are everywhere; mostly oversized shirts and pajama shorts, draped over chairs and half-folded laundry baskets, forming a terrain only you understand how to navigate.
Behind you, your bed looks like a crime scene of plushies and blankets. It was cute once. Little pastel sheets, adorable bunny-print pillowcase, but now the duvet is half off the mattress and a plushie of an anime boy with his face-down near your pillow like he fainted from embarrassment after watching your screen for too long. Laundry piles form miniature tectonic plates, meeting at the edge of the bed like continents of shame. Beside the mattress, empty pill bottles clatter when the AC kicks on. SSRIs, mood stabilizers, a bottle you don’t even take anymore but never got around to throwing away. You like the way the plastic sounds. You like the clutter. You like the chaos because it feels like home.
You’ve been hunched here all day, neck craned forward like a gargoyle, occasionally shifting just enough to stop your spine from screaming. Around the computer, your life is arranged in offerings: crumpled Taco Bell wrappers, a half-finished manga volume, an energy drink from two days ago, and your sketchbook…closed, thank god…on the edge of your desk.
There’s some…stuff in there.
Stuff like:
character concepts
gore studies
romantic manga layouts
and a few explicit drawings that would absolutely ruin your life if anyone found them, drawn with too much precision to claim they were accidents, too intimate for plausible deniability.
You’re not proud of those.
Well.
You’re a little proud. But also horrified. But also…horny.
It’s complicated being 19.
Especially 19, chronically online, anime-obsessed, and living in a basement.
You stretch your arms over your head until your spine cracks like bubble wrap. Your oversized shirt, an anime merch piece you definitely spent grocery money on, rides up your stomach. You tug it down without thinking, then push your glasses back up your nose.
Your headphones are crooked. Your bangs are greasy. Your fingertips are stained with ink.
You are, by all definitions, a social reject.
And honestly? You’re resigned to it.
You rub your eyes, yawn, and lean closer to the monitor, scrolling through the other forum thread that’s been eating your brain all morning. It was about this anime that you downloaded via a sketchy torrent link and now watch religiously. You don’t even remember how you found the torrent, someone perhaps mentioned it on LiveJournal? A webring? IRC? The memory is a blur.
“Is the new episode supposed to drop this week??”
“No dude, the fansub page crashed again.”
“Also who tf is this chick drawing my waifu with…those proportions??”
“Mods, do ur job.”
You squint. You recognize the username dragging your art.
God.
If you went outside more, maybe you’d have more shame, but you don’t, so all you feel is defensive rage pulsing through your chest like a tiny anime chibi stomping around. You crack your knuckles dramatically.
“You don’t know SHIT about anatomy, ‘GundamFan420.’ I bet you don’t even bathe.”
(The irony of this accusation does not occur to you.)
You start typing an angry reply and then delete it. Then type again. Then delete it again. You spend ninety seconds glaring at the blinking cursor like it personally offended your family.
Instead, you open another tab, your DeviantArt page.
You stare at the half-finished manga panel you’ve been working on: dramatic lighting, blood spatter, a girl with big eyes and bigger scissors. She looks cool as hell. She also looks like she hasn’t slept in four days. You respect her.
You scratch the back of your neck, now embarrassed at the thought of your art getting dissed by randoms on forums even though no one is here to witness your spiral. You tuck your legs under you a little and keep scrolling the forum, angrily sipping from a lukewarm monster you forgot you even opened.
You shift on the cracked faux-leather swivel chair, pushing aside an empty water bottle, a tangled pile of printer paper, and the unopened pill bottles your mom keeps begging you to “at least TRY to take consistently.” You pick one up, shake it, and the rattle echoes faintly.
Your mom yells your name from upstairs.
You ignore her.
She yells again.
You try to ignore her harder.
From upstairs, faintly, you hear your mom’s voice. Then another voice. A man’s. Familiar. Your heart stumbles in your chest.
Your mom has been trying to “fix your social isolation” for months. She’s been nagging the boys in the neighborhood, trying to force you into “getting some air,” leaving pamphlets for community college anime clubs near your cereal bowl.
No. No way. She wouldn’t. Not again.
You barely register the footsteps on the stairs. It’s likely your mother, probably trying to pry you to come out of your anime dungeon for the nth time this week. Maybe with the inciting knowledge that some boy has come to specifically see you. You would always scoff. Please. you rarely left the house. No man would want to do anything with you after seeing you walk around with a stained shirt and dead, feral hair.
A hinge moans. A draft rolls down the stairs, stirring the stale basement air. Then another sound; a step, careful and deliberate, as if the person descending is already bracing themselves for whatever horror your lair contains.
You don’t bother turning around. You assume it’s your mom. Who else would willingly brave the smell, the mess, the humidity thick enough to chew?
Another footstep.
Slower this time.
Heavier.
Not your mother.
The hair prickles on the back of your neck, an instinctive animal signal that you’re being watched. You keep your eyes locked on your monitor, pretending to care deeply about someone’s 200-word essay on why Sailor Saturn could “canonically curb-stomp a grown man.” Your pointer finger nervously rolls the scroll wheel even though you’re not reading a single word.
The footsteps stop halfway down the stairs.
Silence stretches, too long to be casual.
Then a voice, low and dry and unmistakably unimpressed, slices through the air:
“…Your mom wasn’t exaggerating.”
You go rigid.
Your pulse lurches so violently it buzzes in your ears. Every molecule in your spine straightens. You turn your head just enough to see him standing there, Gerard Way, halfway down your basement steps, one hand on the railing, the other shoved into the pocket of a worn sweater that looks like it was bought secondhand and slept in multiple times.
He’s older than you remember.
But also somehow…sharper.
His face is leaner, cheekbones more defined, hair disheveled in a way that looks intentional but absolutely isn’t. Dark strands fall around his face in soft, messy waves, framing eyes that are scanning your space with a slow, devastating precision.
He isn’t just looking at your room.
He’s assessing it.
Cataloguing.
Judging.
Absorbing every filthy detail like he’s gathering evidence for a case he already knows you’ll lose.
His gaze drags across the laundry piles, the small mountain of ramen cups stacked like a shrine to poor life choices, the scattered plushies with flattened limbs, your rumpled bedding, your garbage-strewn desk. His mouth parts a little, not in awe, but some complex mixture of disbelief and dark amusement.
He descends another step, boots thudding softly on the old wood.
“Well,” he says finally, voice dipped in a deceptively calm condescension, “this is… worse than I imagined.”
“That— I didn’t— I didn’t know anyone was coming down here,” you manage, your voice embarrassingly small in comparison to his presence.
“Oh yeah,” he replies, stepping off the last stair with a slow, deliberate pace. “It shows.”
He walks further in, hands still in his pockets, shoulders loose, expression relaxed in that dangerous way people get when they’re fully confident they have the upper hand. He doesn’t even try to hide the way he’s looking. He’s unfiltered, invasive, reading your space the way someone would read graffiti on a bathroom stall.
His eyes land on the desk.
Your desk.
Your chaos altar of shame.
His nose wrinkles faintly, not exaggerated, just a tiny, real reaction as he takes in the debris of your life: the wrappers, the empty cans, the open manga, the tangled headphones, your greasy keyboard…and the half-hidden sketchbook.
He steps closer.
“Jesus,” he mutters, voice low, almost to himself, “you really do live down here.”
He says it like an accusation.
You deleted all tabs off your browser instinctively, the sound of your mouse clicking filling the basement. He glances at the motion, then smirks in a slow, crooked, knowing way that twists something deep in your chest.
“What, hiding government secrets?” he asks, amused. “Or just something you don’t want mommy’s friend to see?”
You want to die.
“No. I just— I wasn’t expecting—”
“That’s obvious.” He pushes aside an empty water bottle with his boot. “Your mom said you haven’t stepped outside in…what, days? Weeks?”
You scowl. “She exaggerates.”
“Oh? So not weeks?” He raises a brow. “Just…days? A handful? A concerning number?”
His eyes flick down and catch sight of one of your anime figures, a tiny, overly-proportioned girl with big eyes and a far-too-short skirt. He bends slightly, picks it up by the head between two fingers, and examines it with a level of judgment that could peel paint.
“I see you’ve been keeping… company,” he murmurs.
You shoot up, “Put her down!”
He snorts. Actually snorts. Then gently sets the figurine back in place, but the damage is already done. You feel exposed, ridiculous, infantile under the weight of his casual cruelty.
He shifts his attention to the rest of your room, scanning the stains on your shirt, the half-kicked-off slippers, the greasy bangs stuck to your forehead, the general aura of ‘someone has lived without sunlight for too long.’
Then his eyes land on your sketchbook.
He sees enough of the corner peeking out to recognize it for what it is: something you care about. Something private. Something that should be left alone.
So of course he reaches for it.
You make a sound, something between a gasp and a squeal, but he ignores it entirely. He slides the sketchbook free, taps it lightly with his fingers like he’s weighing it.
And then he looks at you.
Really looks.
His expression slants into something crueler, something curious, something almost delighted in a dark, wicked way.
“What’s in here?” he asks, voice deceptively soft.
“No, don’t— give that—”
He flips open to a random page and it's like the universe has all odds stacked against you.
Your deprived, sad, private world collapses.
The room shrinks to the size of your own humiliation. Air evaporates. Your pulse roars. Every muscle in your body fires at once and none of them get you any closer to grabbing the damn book out of his hands.
He is silent for a moment.
Too silent.
Then his eyebrows lift, slowly, like a curtain rising on a disturbing play.
“…Wow.”
Your stomach plummets.
He turns another page.
“…Oh, wow.”
You lunge for it, but he sidesteps like it’s effortless, like he’s been expecting you. His reflexes are irritatingly good; he keeps the notebook held up with one hand while using the other to nudge your forehead back.
“Easy,” he says, laughing under his breath. “Give it back—!”
“No, no, hang on,” he murmurs, flipping another page.
You feel like you’re going to pass out.
His expression shifts; from surprise, to fascination, to something sharper and meaner. He studies one of the more explicit drawings, gaze dragging across the lines with a level of focus that is too intimate, too knowing.
Then he looks up at you through his lashes, mouth curling in a slow, devastating smirk.
“…You’re disgusting.”
Your breath stutters.
“Jesus. Nineteen and drawing stuff like this? You’ve never even done half these things, have you?”
You freeze.
He sees it.
He feels the shift.
Something wicked glints in his eyes as he leans in, voice dropping, tone dipped in sweet, cruel mockery: “Oh my god. You haven’t.”
Your breath shivers in your lungs.
He tilts his head, studying you with the leisurely fascination of a predator that just realized its prey can’t run.
“You’re a virgin.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “Stop.”
“You are.” His voice softens, teasing and lethal. “You’ve never touched anyone. Never been touched. And you draw like..” He flips around to find another page. “…this.”
“Gerard—”
“You’re unbelievable.” He laughs again, low, warm, devastating. “A fucking perv with a hentai artist skillset.”
You want to evaporate.
But beneath the humiliation, something warm coils low in your stomach.
He notices.
His eyes flicker in interest, realization, a new kind of curiosity sharpening behind them.
“…Huh,” he says quietly, studying you with unsettling precision. “You like when someone talks to you like that.”
You stop breathing.
He smiles slowly, knowing, and cruelly.
He’s still holding the sketchbook, fingers brushing yours in that maddening way that makes your stomach curl and your pulse spike, but now his eyes aren’t on the pages. They’re on you, sharp and dark and mocking, and there’s this dangerous tilt to his head, like he’s deciding exactly how much chaos he wants to unleash.
"You know, if you spent half as much time on hygiene as you do drooling over tentacle hentai, you might actually be somewhat presentable. But then again, I guess the stench keeps people away. Which is probably what you want, right?" he murmurs, low, almost deadly, and the words hit you like a sucker punch because they’re coated in that same cruel amusement he’s been wielding the whole time.
You gasp. Something in your chest tightens. You shove him lightly, because what else can you do? “You’re being cruel,” you hiss, but your voice trembles, betraying exactly what you feel.
"Cruel?" he repeats, a scoff leaving his throat. "Or honest?" In one motion, he closes the distance between you, invading your personal space until you can feel the heat of his breath ghosting over your skin. "Face it. You're practically gagging for someone to touch you, aren't ya? All pent-up...frustrated. It's written all over your face.”
Despite his cruel words and the disgust evident in his expression, there was no denying the glint of attraction in Gerard's eyes as he looked at you. Perhaps it was the taboo thrill of corrupting such an innocent, untouched person. Or maybe he simply had a taste for the bizarre and unconventional. Whatever the reason, seeing you like this…all flushed, trembling, clearly affected by his proximity despite (or perhaps because of his verbal assaults) stirred something deep within him. God help him, but he wanted to be the one to do it, to claim you, to ruin you for whatever freak you let touch you.
Then he leans closer, too close, and your legs brush against the mattress. You didn’t even realize you were so pushed up to it. You can feel the heat radiating from him, warmth from his body mixing with the stale basement air, the tang of his cologne, a woody, coffee-like sharpness that makes your knees weak. His face hovers an inch from yours, his dark eyes scanning every twitch, every blink.
And suddenly, he’s not teasing. Not in words. His lips brush yours in the lightest, quickest, almost mocking touch. Your breath hitches.
“See?” he murmurs against your mouth, smirk softening into something more dangerous.
You don’t even answer. You press forward instinctively, closing the distance. Your lips collide, and it’s all heat and sharp teeth and fumbling hands. You try to pull away, slightly embarrassed, but he doesn’t let you. His hands find your waist, fingers curling around your sides like he’s claiming you, and the sketchbook falls forgotten to the floor.
“You’re pathetic,” he whispers against your lips, voice rough, teasing. You press harder, tangling your hands in his hair, tugging at those messy waves, and he groans making a sharp, guttural sound that makes your stomach flutter violently. He retaliates immediately, pulling your head closer with one hand, lips pressing harder, teeth grazing your lower lip. You yelp in surprise and delight, fumbling with his sweater, catching the edge and yanking it just enough to roll him slightly backward onto the bed, laughing despite the burn in your chest.
“Careful,” he hisses, but it’s more warning than admonition. His fingers dig into your hips now, thumb brushing dangerously close to the waistband of your shorts.
You smirk in a bold, teasing, half-terrified and press against him once more, brushing your tongue lightly against his lower lip. His response is immediate: lips crashing against yours again, harder this time, demanding, possessive, mean. He’s not gentle. He doesn’t want to be gentle. And the truth is, neither do you.
Slap
His free hand cracks across your cheek, the sting sharp and sudden. Small tears spring to your eyes at the unexpected violence, but he doesn't seem to care. If anything, the sight of your shock and pain only seems to excite him more. But beneath the sting, thrill pulses through your veins. Your body betrays you, nipples hardening, core clenching shamefully.
He pulls back for just a breath, and his smile is sharp. “God, you’re filthy,” he murmurs, teeth catching the swell of your bottom lip, playful but edged with that wicked arrogance that drives you insane.
“Shut up,” you gasp, pressing forward again, teeth clacking against his briefly before your lips slide over his, hands scrabbling for purchase on his back and shoulders. He growls, low, teasing, but it’s the kind of growl that makes your spine tingle with heat and shame and excitement all at once.
“Do you ever think before you act?” he demands against your mouth, hands tightening. “Or do you just throw yourself at anything remotely…interesting?”
“Maybe I just like you,” you whisper between kisses, the words nearly lost in the collision of teeth and lips.
He freezes for the briefest second before he grins. “Figures. You’re as ridiculous as your art.”
And then, mercilessly, he’s back and kissing you again, harder, hands tangling in your messy hair, thumbs pressing against your sides as he rolls his hips against you. Your hands dig into his sweater, nails dragging, tugging him impossibly closer, and he hums low, cruel, satisfied.
“You’re such a slut,” he sinks deeper into your mouth, breath hot, and grinding against the fabric of your shorts. “Fucking creep.”
You moan at his words breathlessly, brushing your lips against his jaw, biting lightly as your own brand of cruelty. He stutters a breath, the sound vibrating through your chest.
His hands move with more confidence now, more control, tracing over your sides, hips, stomach, teasing without pause, whispering insults and little praises all at once, keeping your mind spinning.
“You’d do anything for attention, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs, teeth brushing your ear.
“Yes,” you hiss, heat crawling up your spine, melting your embarrassment into want.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, smirk deepening.
Your back hits the bed, making your breath clutter pressing against you, plushies squished beneath your elbows, an old manga volume threatening to slide off the nightstand, the faint scent of instant ramen and stale air wrapping around you like a guilty blanket. Gerard’s hands are at your chest, fingers pressing firmly.
You arch against him, hands tangling in his dark, unkempt hair, tugging roughly and earning a sharp growl that vibrates through his chest and yours. He shifts, pressing closer, lips crashing against yours again, mercilessly, as if testing how much you can take. Your knees bump against his thighs, the tight space of the bed forcing bodies together in impossible angles, and it’s chaotic– fumbling hands, teeth, hair, clothes, the air thick with heat and perfume, the slight dampness of the basement mixing with him. Hands over buttons and collars, hair tugged roughly, lips mashed together Gerard’s sharp teeth catch your bottom lip, and you whine just enough, scratching at his back.
He pulls away, eyes raking over your disheveled form. "Look at you, sprawled out like a bitch in heat. No wonder you're always holed up in here, getting off to fake porn. Who else would want a freak like you?"
“Apparently you–”
His eyes narrow dangerously at your insolence. In a blur of motion, he flips you onto your stomach, pinning you down with his larger frame.
With a rough yank, he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your pajama shorts and panties, roughly dragging them down your legs until they pool around your ankles. The cool air of the basement hits your exposed skin, raising goosebumps.
You almost feel ashamed knowing your figurines are probably becoming witnesses to this.
"There's your proof," he sneers, voice dripping with mocking amusement as he takes in the sight of your glistening folds. "Already soaked, just like the desperate whore you are."
Without warning, his palm connects with your bare pussy in a sharp spank, the lewd sound echoing obscenely in the small room. The sting mingles with pleasure, making you gasp and writhe beneath him.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he taunts, delivering another stinging slap to your sensitive flesh.
You were quick to nod, your body jittering with excitement. This felt like fulfilling all the nasty fantasies you had in your head. Even if burned and ached, it sent sparks into your stomach.
He positions himself behind you, one large hand gripping your hip possessively while the other traces teasing circles around your dripping entrance. "Tell me how badly you want it," he demands. His fingers then dip shallowly inside you, just enough to tease, before withdrawing completely. The loss leaves you empty and aching, hips canting back desperately seeking more stimulation.
"P-please," you whimper, hating how pathetic you sound but unable to stop yourself. "I need it. Need you. Fuck me, please!"
"Hah, so eager for me."
Without warning, he plunges two fingers knuckle-deep inside your aching cunt, pumping them against your gummy walls. The sudden intrusion makes you see stars, a choked sob escaping your lips. His fingers felt so much better than your own. Nothing could compare, no amount of porn or weird online creeps trying to get you off could ever measure up to this. His fingers are thicker than yours and could reach spots you couldn’t quite get. His thumb ends up finding your clit, circling the sensitive nub with light touches.
His pace gradually increases, fingers pumping steadily as he explores your most intimate depths. He curls and twists, determined to map every inch of your silken heat, finding spots that make your toes curl and your vision blur with ecstasy.
"Mmmm, you're so tight," he murmurs appreciatively, feeling your velvety walls flutter around his digits. "You thinking of something, hmm?”
He sets a steady rhythm, fingers plunging in and out of your sopping wet passage. The obscene sounds of your arousal fill the room - the slick glide of his hand, your breathy moans and whimpers.
Just as you feel your climax building, teetering on the edge of sweet release, he abruptly withdraws his fingers. A whine of protest dies in your throat as the delicious fullness disappears, leaving you empty and aching.
"You can wait," he chides, voice strained with barely contained lust. The rustle of fabric draws your attention as he fumbles with his belt and zipper, freeing his straining erection.
"Feel that?" he growls, gripping your hip with one hand while the other guides the thick head of his cock to hover teasingly over your entrance. "Feel how hard you've made me?” He rocks against you, the hot, hard length sliding through your slick folds but never quite breaching you.
Unable to resist, you grind your hips back against him, coating his shaft in your slick arousal. The friction feels incredible, stoking the flames of your desire higher.
"Aahh, look at you, humping my cock like a dog," he taunts, voice husky.
Slowly, torturously, he begins to sink into you. The broad head of his cock stretches you wide, demanding entry. Inch by agonizing inch, he pushes forward, giving you time to adjust to the overwhelming sensation of being filled for the first time.
"F-Fuck," he grits out, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise.
Your body tenses as he enters, a soft gasp escaping you. Your fingers scrabble at the sheets, bunching the fabric in white-knuckled fists as you try to process the foreign yet exhilarating sensation of being stretched and filled so completely.
A shudder runs through you as he hilts himself fully inside, the unfamiliar pressure and fullness stealing breath. Tears of overwhelmed emotion prick at the corners of your eyes– pain intermingling with pleasure, fear with anticipation. Your inner muscles flutter and clench around the thick intrusion, instinctively trying to accommodate him.
"Breathe," he commands softly, voice a low comfort.
This is probably the only time of the night he’d be truly tender to you.
Slowly, he begins to move, withdrawing until just the tip remains inside before pushing back in. He sets a measured pace, each thrust carefully controlled despite the obvious effort it takes. "That's it, good girl," he praises quietly, leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder blade.
As he continues to rock into you, the initial discomfort begins to fade, replaced by a growing sense of fullness and pleasure. Your hips start to move in tandem with his, meeting each thrust with increasing confidence.
"Mmmm," he croons, voice a low, seductive murmur.
One hand slides down to rub tight circles on your clit, the dual stimulation making your inner walls clench and ripple around his pistoning length. The obscene sounds of the coupling fill the room– the slap of skin on skin, your breathy moans, his guttural grunts of pleasure.
"You feel so good wrapped around me," he pants against your ear, nibbling the lobe. G-Gonna ruin you for everyone else."
His hand moves from your clit to wrap around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make breathing slightly difficult. "Loosening you up so you'll spread your legs for any rando who asks. Can't wait to show off your fucked up pussy to the creeps online, huh?"
He leans down, teeth gritting the shell of your ear as he whispers filthily. "Gonna make sure you're loose and ready for anything."
Your body responds eagerly to his degrading words, arousal spiking with each filthy promise. You can picture it vividly– loose and wanton, spreading your newly stretched hole for faceless men online. The thought makes you clench hard around him, a wanton moan spilling from your lips.
"Yes," You whimper, voice thick with need. "W-Wanna…be used. Wanna be everyone's toy." The admission hangs heavy in the air, raw and honest. You never felt so exposed, so utterly consumed by base desire. Your hips roll back to meet his increasingly thrusts, taking him impossibly deeper. The wet, obscene sounds of your coupling fill the room, punctuated by your broken cries of pleasure.
His hips snap forward harder, driving into you with relentless force. The new angle has him hitting that special spot inside you with every thrust, sending sparks of ecstasy shooting up your spine.
"Gonna, fff-fuckk, cum," he promises gingerly, sweat beading on his brow from the exertion.
His words, combined with the relentless pounding of his hips, send you hurtling over the edge. Pleasure crashes through you like a tidal wave, stealing your breath and shredding sanity. Your inner walls clamp down on him like a vice, rippling and fluttering as you climax harder than you ever have before.
"Oh god, oh fuck!" you wail, back arching further as ecstasy consumes you. Tears stream down your face, overwhelmed by the intensity of your release. You can hardly believe it– that you, recluse and inexperienced, could actually bring a man to the brink of orgasm.
A mocking laugh escapes him as he feels you spasming around him, your climax triggering an involuntary clench. "Look at you," he taunts, continuing to thrust through your aftershocks. "You’re, ahn, as pathetic as th-they come."
He doesn't slow his pace, if anything doubling his efforts. The wet squelch of your tender cunt fills the air as he uses you, chasing his own release. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he pulls you back onto his cock.
With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside your quivering hole. A guttural groan tears from his throat as his cock pulses and twitches, spilling thick ropes of hot seed deep into you.
"Fuuuck, take it all," he snarls, grinding against you as he empties himself. His hips jerk sporadically, milking out every ounce of his release.
After a long moment, he slowly pulls out of you with a wet sound. His softened cock slips free, followed by a trickle of combined fluids. He steps back, fingers now searching for his clothes, tucking himself away with quick, efficient movements.
The sudden loss of his warmth leaves you feeling exposed and used. An awkward silence descends, the only sound of your ragged breathing as the haze of lust begins to clear. He stares down at you impassively, expression unreadable. The transition from intense passion to cold indifference is jarring, highlighting the transactional nature of the encounter.
The room feels too hot. Too quiet. The silence arrives in a smack, like someone yanked the power cord out of whatever feverish state you’d both been in. Your breath still hitches in uneven little jumps, your knees shaking as you turn your body around and prop yourself at the edge of your unmade bed.
Gerard steps back, jaw clenched, breath harsh in his throat. His hair is a mess. His eyes are already cooling over. Going blank. Going uninterested.
He doesn’t even look at you when he reaches for the discarded shirt on the floor, your shirt. The one you peeled off when he yanked you against him, the one you didn’t even realize had fallen there. He drags it across his stomach and then lower, cleaning himself off like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it isn’t yours. Like it doesn’t matter.
Your brain trips over itself. Some part of you is still in that haze, that place where his hands were everywhere and his mouth was unforgiving and everything felt bigger than you could hold. But it’s evaporating fast, replaced by this creeping cold creeping up your ribs.
“...You’re just gonna leave?” you ask. The words scrape out, embarrassingly small, barely stitched together.
Gerard finally glances at you. Just a flick of his eyes, sharp and unimpressed.
“Uh, yeah?” he says, like you asked the dumbest question possible. “What, you want me to cuddle now? Ew.”
Your stomach drops. You swallow once. Twice.
“I…I thought you liked me,” you say, and immediately hate how uncertain you sound. “Like…at least a little?”
He laughs.
It’s not a nice laugh. It’s not even a real one. It's this short, sharp burst of disbelief, like someone handed him the worst punchline in the world.
“Oh my God,” he mutters. “Sweetheart. No.”
You blink.
“I mean… you don’t—?” your voice trails, your throat thick.
He tosses your used shirt onto the floor like trash.
“You live in filth,” Gerard says flatly, gesturing vaguely at the cluttered room; the laundry pile you promised yourself you’d clean, posters peeling off the walls, the abandoned cups on your desk. “Look around. I’m doing you a favor even being here. Be grateful.”
Your breath catches hard, like something punched you under the ribs.
Gerard grabs his sweater, shakes it off like he doesn’t even want to bring a memory of your space with him. He puts it over his head, already halfway out the emotional door.
“You knew what this was,” he adds, like the conversation’s boring him now. “Don’t make it weird.”
He already had his pants on as he turned toward the real door– the actual exit, and your brain scrambles, your chest tight, your heart pounding like it’s waking up way too late to warn you about anything.
“That’s it?” you ask, voice small, raw. “You’re just gonna walk out?”
He pauses with his hand on the doorknob. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t offer comfort. Doesn’t soften.
“Yeah,” he says. “Try not to obsess about it.”
And then he leaves.
© xraypains 2025 🥼
a/n: ok i know i said id post “soon”…but this is soon to me since i rarely get any sleep…anyways I LOVED writing this I want mean gee sososososo bad…i also imagined that in this world he actually got the green light for his show and officially lives in nyc soooo yea. also ur moms are bsfs thats why you guys know each other but obviously arent, like, friends. also sorry if this was a bit murky i think it was…
