Emo Trinity x Reader (Book 2)

Dad!Gerard + Reader - A Safe Home

Requested
Warnings: description of physical and mental abuse, description of injuries, ptsd
Word count: 1 231
A/N: two things. One: I have never been abused, so I don't really know what it's like. If you feel like I'm glorying anything, made a mistake describing this, or anything else that bothers you, please let me know. Two: if you are victim, or know anyone who is victim of domestic abuse, by partners, parents, persons of authority, etc. please try to seek professional help. There are hotlines, websites etc for that. And always take good care of yourself.

The wood of the guitar neck felt strangely soft in your hand. Carefully you pressed your finger down on the hard string, causing it to vibrate slightly, before you tucked it with the index finger of your right hand. The resulting sound carried through the room like a warm beam of light, and slowly faded into silence.

A soft smile appeared on your face, and you closed your eyes, before tucking the string again. The sound of a guitar had always had a calming effect on you, and you loved finally being able to play one of the beautiful wooden instruments yourself. Still with closed eyes you continued plucking the strings. Your father had promised you to get you lessons as soon as he had learned how much you were in love with the guitar, and you were already looking forward to it. Now you were playing, not really trying to find a melody, rather appreciating the warm and comforting sounds, and the barely noticeable vibrations of the body against your chest.

Suddenly a loud bang echoed through the house, a bang like only a front door that had forcefully been thrown shut could make. Immediately you stiffened, your blood rushed out of your face and you heart started pumping wildly. A strange tingling in your fingers and knees was the effect of the adrenaline that shot through your veins, preparing you for the attack that was going to come.

With shaking hands, the eyes fixed on the closed door to your room, you placed the guitar down on the blanket of your bed, before you carefully got up. Uneven breaths left your partially parted lips, and you could feel how your teeth were chattering. Slowly, and as quietly as possible, you made your way over to the door.

There were still three meters separating the door and you, when suddenly it sprung open, and you father Gerard walked in, a wide smile on his face that immediately faltered when he noticed that you had jumped back at his entrance.

His eyes widened at the sight of your pale face, and the tension in your body, before understanding settled in.

Pretty much at the same time as he understood what was going on, you snapped back into the situation. There was no reason to be alarmed. There was no reason to be scared. You were safe. You were being looked after. You were loved.

It seemed like the tension left your body all at once, almost causing your knees to give in, and you to stumble backwards to the bed, where you snakingly sat down, your eyes burning with tears of relief; and embarrassment.

"(y/n), hey, it's okay."

Gerard extended his hands for you, approaching you slowly, not wanting to scare you.

"It's me, it's Dad," he assured you.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry," you answered, your voice weak and wet with the same tears that were brimming in your eyes.

"No, don't be, it's fine," he replied, finally reaching you.

Gerard knelt down on the floor in front of your bed, one of his hands gently resting on your knee, his eyes searching yours.

"I- I just- I heard the door and- I heard the door, and I thought-"

You could not even speak properly, the memories of slammed doors, and the screamed insults, and blows against your defenseless body that almost always followed, washing over you mercilessly and like waves that tried to push you down, and never let you up again.

"It was the wind, cupcake, it was the wind that pulled the door closed," Gerard explained.

You nodded with a sob, and buried your face in your hands.

Gerard did not ask. He knew what had happened, why you were so scared, terrified even, of loud sounds, inquiring looks, fast movements, or silence that seemed to last too long. He had never been able to imagine that there were people in the world who were able to do these things to people they claimed to love, but what had happened to you was proof that there were people this cruel. He wanted to hate himself for not noticing, for always believing, or at least not questioning the lies you had told him about the bruises on your arms and shoulders. He wanted to hate himself for not being the one who had helped you, after all he was your father; it was his duty to protect you, make sure you had a good life.

But he had failed, at least he felt like he had. And he was not allowed to hate himself for not being there earlier, because then you would feel guilty. So he told himself that he was doing everything in his power, so that had to be enough, and he really did. It had just been a few weeks ago that he had had the feeling that something was off with you, but he had not thought much of it; everyone had a bad day sometimes. Until the middle of the night, when he had gotten a call from the police.

Neighbors had heard never-ending noise from your flat, so they had called the police, who found you, curled up in a corner, hiding from the world. Bruises were spread over your body, and cuts were bleeding bright red blood from where the worst blows had met your body. After the police had called an ambulance for you, they asked if there was someone who you wanted to contact, and you had given them your father's number. In the hospital the doctors soon found that there were no severe injuries, and after having spent the rest of the night in the care of friendly nurses and quiet doctors, you had been released into Gerard's care.

Unbeknownst to you, he had more than once called his best friend, his brother, or even his therapist in the middle of the night, tears running down his chin while he told them how much he blamed himself for what happened to you, and only slowly he began to strengthen his mind to these thoughts.

Your bruises had quickly faded, and the cuts quickly healed. The caring and loving home your father provided for you filled you with a warmth and safety you had never thought you would experience again. But while your body healed, your mind took a lot longer.

Gerard had made sure you could go, and see a therapist you got along with regularly, and he always listened if you wanted to talk, or talked, if you just needed distraction. And he had found a guitar teacher for you, so you would start your first lesson in a few days.

But now you were sitting on your, bed, the guitar abandoned on the blanket, Gerard kneeling in front of you, waiting for you to allow him to hug you.

When he gently pulled your hands away from your face, your eyes were red from crying, but a slight smile was on your lips. You leant forwards and wrapped your arms around your father's neck, nuzzling your nose into his curls, breathing in the familiar smell that meant nothing but safety and peace to you.

"Thanks for being here for me, Dad," you whispered quietly, feeling him take a deep breath.

"There's nothing to thank me for, cupcake. I'm your Dad, that's what Dads do."