FicWad

* Warning: Contains violence, language, sexual content and masturbation. The pairing is random.

Author's note: I realized that i forgot to add this. I don't do what Gerard does what things like this happen. His 'reaction' is based off of things I have read. I just thought you should know that. Thank you and enjoy.*


Thud. Thud. Thud. BAM.

Gerard silently thanked God that his bed was against the wall and he pressed his back hard against it, as if trying to escape the noise. It was coming from above him. Of course it was, the noise had nowhere else to come from. His bed was in the basement. The only way it could come from somewhere else is if it was happening right outside his door- and he prayed that it wouldn’t come to that.

He hated those sounds, hated them because he was so afraid of them. The voices were muffled, but he could hear them, hear the cursing and the violence and the hate spilling from the mouths of the people above like vomit. Gerard heard a high-pitched clap of a sound, followed by a feminine cry of pain. It wasn’t exactly a scream, more like a sound released out of frustration and physical agony, forced from the throat flat and sharp and weak with surprise like air forced from a small hole in a balloon. He pulled the blankets around his body like a cocoon and held them in place, tight, tight, so very, very tight around him. They were thick blankets, but he still felt naked, exposed, unsafe. The voices above him were meshing together to form one ugly, angry sound, the high voice mixing with the low voice like some hideous song played out of tune, out of key, out of time. And he wanted them to stop, but God, he hated the silence that followed the ugly song they sang. It was the silence that made his heart pound so painfully in his chest that he thought for sure he was dying, that eventually the organ would stop completely in his chest and the breath he was taking would snag in his throat and he would just die there, afraid and alone and in his bed.

“-WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU-”

“-FUCK YOU! JUST-”

“-HATE YOU, YOU STUPID FUCK-”

Gerard couldn’t get used to the sounds, the voices. He couldn’t stop thinking about the fear in his stomach and the thoughtless words above him, and then he thought about his brother who was on the same floor as the screaming and that horrible thudding and the pain inside him became so acute that he clutched himself and groaned into the thick blankets. His brother- his baby, innocent brother- was two years younger than him, and he may have been in his teens and that point but he was still young, still capable of being afraid, and Gerard wanted to run upstairs and grab him and pull him into the darkness of his basement bedroom. The thoughts circled his head like a fly in a jar until he was obsessed. He couldn’t stop thinking about how afraid Mikey must have been, how the screaming and the yelling and the thudding was ripping apart any innocence that was left in his brain. He wanted- no, it was more than a want, it was a pulsing, screaming /need/- to get himself upstairs and save his little brother.

But they were upstairs. The conductors of the horrid music pounding above him. Directly above him, actually. It was the kitchen they always did this in, which was directly above his basement bedroom. He supposed that if he silently walked down the short amount of hallway, climbed the stairs (stepping gingerly over the one that always groaned beneath his foot), opened the slowly, slowly, so the hinges didn’t squeak, tip-toed around that piece of wall that separated him from the noises and made his way delicately into his brother’s room, he could coax the boy into the safety of his brother’s pitch black room.

But he was so afraid. His body was shaking uncontrollably, the trembling coming in powerful waves that brought nausea along with the tears and the shaking. And he couldn’t stop. He tried to hold himself still but he couldn’t stop. And he wanted to get his brother, wanted it so badly because he was so afraid for him, but he was just so terrified to move away from his place on his soft, semi-safe bed. He wanted to stay in his room where it was so dark that his eyes couldn’t even fully adjust and all he could make out where basic shapes and forms, with the ear buds of his iPod in his ears blasting music loud enough to cover up the sounds. He wanted to stay with his candles that smelled like sugar cookies and some sort of exotic flower, and his posters of his favorite bands, and the closed spaces, and his comic books, and the stinging pain of the very, very fresh cuts on his arm, and all these other things that kept his mind away from what was scaring him into a near heart-attack. He wanted to cry. But he already was.

Gerard whined like a small, frightened dog and pushed his face deep into the thick blankets, his nose running, his eyes and face wet and hot, as the noises escalated.

THUD.

“STOP IT!!”


Gerard sobbed miserably, using every ounce of self-control to keep his voice at its minimum level of audibility.

THUD.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! STOP!!”


He wanted help, he wanted someone there to hold him and be near him and to keep him safe and tell him it was all right. But there was no one. There was no one out there- save for his brother, although the affection was in their blood and Gerard looked upon it as almost meaningless because it seemed as though they were almost obliged to care for one another- who wanted to care for him. No one was sitting in their bed wondering if he was okay, and he would have given anything- anything/- to have that comfort, that affection, that /closeness.

Gerard suddenly wanted to kiss someone. Not a small peck on the cheek or even the lips; he wanted to force open their lips with his and shove his tongue into their mouth. It could be anyone- boy, girl, younger than him, older than him- as long as he found them attractive and he could kiss them and touch them and do anything he wanted to them. He suddenly laughed helplessly into his blankets. For all he knew, those two monsters upstairs were killing each other and he could walk up there to find blood on the kitchen floor and their bodies dead and cold and decaying, and he was laying there fantasizing about kissing. They could be beating each other into wet, broken pieces and he was fucking horny.

He had once heard that, under times of great stress or fear, people can be found smiling and laughing, despite their inner torment. He guessed that’s what was happening now. Something inside him snapped, severed like a taut rope, and he was smiling and laughing as he imagined himself violently kissing some imaginary stranger. He didn’t know what they looked like, just that in his head the lips were firm and the body was lean so it must have been a male. Gerard quickly scanned his brain for someone familiar, just someone he could imagine, while the cries above him became more heated. As soon as his search was over, he giggled almost stupidly. In his head, he was making out with a seventeen year-old Jared Leto. The singer from Thirty Seconds to Mars. God, he didn’t even like that band all that much (if the radio was on and they were playing he might stop there and listen for a while but he’d never intentionally pick one of their songs), but the singer had black hair about the same length as Gerard’s (it reached just at their chins, although Gerard’s was much shaggier and Jared’s had the tips dyed red) and his abdomen was lean and firm and his eyes were a powerful steely grey outlined in black liner, so fuck it. Their music could have been the worst in the world but as long as that human being was inside Gerard’s head and magically the same age as him, he could have cared less.

Gerard pulled the blankets over his head to hide from the sounds. He clenched his eyes shut and imagined that the singer was there with him, seventeen and in full makeup, slamming their mouths together as Gerard pushed his head in to deepen the kiss. He’d never really made out with anyone, but in his head he imagined it feeling pleasurable in his lips and body.

“-WHY DON’T YOU JUST-”

“-GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!”

He licked his lips before biting down on his bottom lip gently as he imagined grabbing the singer’s hips and pushing their middles together. One of Gerard’s hands nervously- /why was he nervous? No one could see him, no one was around/- moved to his chest. Through his T-shirt he felt with his thumb and forefinger that his nipple was hard. He gently twisted the nub of flesh, sending pleasure through his body. He forgot for a second about the symphony of hate ringing above him.

“-YOU NEVER CARED ABOUT US-”

“-LYING BITCH, I HATE-”

THUD.

Gerard let out a quiet sob as he heard the thud. He didn’t know who or what was being hit, but he tried to block out the sounds and images but delving deeper into his imagination, his only form of release. As he pictured the singer touching his hips, licking his tongue over his mouth, Gerard let his hand move down his abdomen. A sense of shame was boiling in his stomach as he slid it into his thick, black boxer shorts. His parents were probably killing each other upstairs and he was getting ready to jack himself off in his bed. He gasped out a single sob and he rubbed his palm against his half-hard arousal. There was so much pain inside his chest that he felt like he was drowning; his head felt like it was splitting in two. But now there was a dull physical pleasure bleeding into that space. The release of pain felt so good, so needed, that he rubbed it harder and felt it jump and swell beneath his hand. Clenching his eyes tightly shut again, he imagined that his hand was Jared’s that the other boy was licking and kissing him, his hand rubbing against his needy erection. Shame was building up inside him, and the tears flowed freely out of his eyes, helpless sobs escaping from his mouth and he gripped himself and started to quickly move his hand.

Part of Gerard felt pathetic, stupid, sick- sick in the head, sick in his body- for doing this when he was so terrified. The other part of him didn’t give a fuck. The other part of him needed this so badly that it didn’t care in the slightest what that stupid part of him thought.

He was sobbing and panting at the same time. One hand was on his chest, the other on his cock. He imagined that Jared’s mouth- his warm, wet mouth with its soft lips and perfectly shaped teeth that knew exactly when to press down- was around him while his hand reached up and grabbed his chest. Instead of sobbing, this time he let out an involuntary moan, it was quiet and weak but, God, it felt so good. He sped up the movement of his hand, feeling wetness gather at the tip, smearing on his palm.

THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD.

Those sounds, those sounds he hated so much were back and he wanted them to go away. He was so afraid. He was so afraid that he was going to die, that they were going to come down into his dark bedroom with its posters and music and dirty carpet and its candles that smelled like cookies and they were going to hurt him and God, he was so afraid that he couldn’t stop crying and moving his hand because he wanted all of it to stop. He groaned again and felt the familiar but indescribable tightening feeling in the very core of his lower belly. There was wetness and stickiness on his hand and on his boxers and his body felt weak and he knew he was coming to an end and he didn’t want it to but really, he needed to. His back arched off the bed slightly, bowing as he imagined Jared’s hand sliding up and down his arousal as he sucked, licking his tongue along that wet and sticky tip. He moaned to no one and found himself gently whispering the singer’s name. It was odd. He’d seen this person before on television and in music videos. He’d always had this tiny, insignificant thought of, ”He’s hot”/, but it came and went quickly, as meaningless as any of his other thoughts. He didn’t have his band’s CDs, he didn’t have a poster of them hung in his room, and if someone asked him to name three of their songs he’d be stuck. But now he wished that he could have that person there with him, really touching him, really licking and sucking on him, really /taking him away from all of this.

He was almost there.

“GET OUT!”

Almost to his release.

“I HOPE YOU FUCKING DIE!”

He wanted it, it was coming close.

THUD. THUD. CRACK.

Gerard took his less busy hand and cupped it tightly over his mouth as he spilled over. He arched his back, leaned his head back onto his pillows, clenched his eyes shut, and groaned as he felt warmth and wetness spill onto his hand. He thrust into his hand for a few more seconds as he reached his peak, and then declined, his moans becoming softer and more tired as he felt himself soften. In a last-second attempt to drown out the thought of the sickening crack he’d just heard, he rubbed the wetness around his softened cock, enjoying the dulled sensation. He breathed deeply for a moment and relaxed into his pillow, wanting more the way he imagined a starving child wants more to eat when there isn’t enough. This want only made him feel even more sick and ashamed, although by now the feeling had been dulled, existing in only a shadow of its former self, flattened against the walls of his stomach.

He breathed. And realized it was quiet.

How long had it been quiet? Since the crack? Had there been noise after that? He hadn’t noticed; he was too enveloped in the sensation of his release. Gerard pulled his hand out of his boxers and wiped the stickiness off on the outside fabric as he pulled the blankets off of his head and sat up, holding himself upright with one of his hands on the bed. He sat. He listened. His heart pounded in his ears and the fear was bleeding back inside him. Gerard jumped, startled, as he heard a thump, as if something had fallen over. Then a shattering sound followed almost immediately after that. Someone had knocked over the table in the hallway. He knew that. It was the one with the glass little figurines on it, the one his mom had bought. She wouldn’t have knocked those over to save her life (Or would she? From what he heard, he didn’t know anymore), so he assumed it was his father.

Gerard breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the rumble of his father’s speech, followed by the high voice of his mother. They were both alive. They sounded shaken (they weren’t the only ones), but they were alive. The crack must have been something breaking. Better a chair or a table than their skulls. Gerard heard them speaking softly for a moment, their voices rose for a second as if they were going to fight again, but then settled. He heard them walking. He heard more quick speaking, then a door slam shut. Quiet.

Gerard breathed in and out through his nose, the breath shaky. He wiped the tears from his face. He would have liked to have said that this was the first time he had done this, that this routine was awkward and unfamiliar and he would probably never do it again. But then he’d be lying.

He listened for a while. He heard nothing. There was still shame and fear in his stomach when he fell asleep.