(no subject)
Title: Irony
Author: catbrains
Pairing: Gerard Way/Bert McCracken
Rating: PG
POV: Bert’s
Summary: "Now you're no longer the bully, but the victim. Worse. You're a victim to him, irony, and yourself all in one."
Disclaimer: I don’t own Gerard Way, Bert McCracken or any other member of My Chemical Romance or The Used.
Author Note: My first slash fiction in mychemicalslash, so let’s see how that goes. And I want to thank jennyguttierrez for being my lovely Beta.
A man lost his dignity, his dominance, the only things in life that strives a man to live. You laugh. Irony, like a God, watches and you find yourself in such a position years later. He laughs instead. Oh, that boy. He made a deal with God. He's either an angel to irony or a demon to fate. Cigarettes in his right hand and condoms in his left. The only two things that can replace his long lost and forgotten soul. You want to go up to him and ask him if it was worth it. You're too afraid, though, because you know in some twisted way, he's less of a scum than you.
The room suddenly becomes warm and comfortable, and you look up to see a smirk slapped across his face. You hate the feeling, no, you're just jealous. Because you know, that you're the one who made the room cold and uncomfortable in the first place. How this became so, you can't quite understand. You used to sit back, laugh a little, as he willingly gave up anything and everything for you. God hates you. Because you took as much advantage as you could, draining him dead cold, and left him there when he had nothing else to give. Now you're no longer the bully, but the victim. Worse. You're a victim to him, irony, and yourself all in one.
You want to feel rotten, learn your lesson through this experience, but you don't. Instead you let out a smug `humph' and let ignorance and the last of your pride get in your way. You let it cut you into pieces and serve you to him on a platter. And he eats you, napkin on lap. You wouldn't mind so much if he just ate your body, but no, he goes deeper than that. He eats your soul, your mind, your existence. Till you are nothing but an empty body with scars covering you from head to toe. Not those normal scars either. No, nothing like those `battle wounds' you tell stories about when you're old. These scars seep through your skin, through your bones, through your blood. They enter your head and drive you crazy, making you scream obscenities at night and cry during the day. The scars that never go away. Not even when you die.
He whispers sweet words in your ear, but you can't hear anything. You want to, hoping that it'll make you forget about the whole situation, but God doesn't want you to forget. It want you to remember. It wants everything hard on you. God wants nothing easy.
You place a drag in your mouth and dig in your pockets for a lighter, starting to panic when you can't find your 99 cent lighter. He pulls out his and lights the cigarette placed on your lips. Normally he doesn't allow you to smoke indoors, but like a child you keep trying hoping that he'll let go of that rule. This day is anything but normal, though. You and he both know it, and rules need to be broken on abnormal days like this.
Smoke exits your mouth as your eyes roll back from relief. There is still a lot of tension crawling on your shoulders, though. A cigarette cannot block out the déjà vu reeking in the room. You're a fool for believing so. You find your hand on his lap, a slow move, but you feared to do much of anything to him. His stare is powerful, but only under the state Irony has pushed you in. It pulls you closer, and it seems he wants this as much as you.
You kiss, briefly, but it was a kiss nonetheless. It follows with a smile from both him and you. Then a seduced moan and next thing you know he's on top of you. You couldn't have wanted anything more, and for a quick second, you think that maybe you thought wrong all along. God really did love you. You grunt from a small pain in your fingers and look to see what it was. The cigarette burning on your fingers brings you back to reality. You couldn't hate fate more than this. Not that fate liked you to begin with.
He laughs, but you know it's not because of a burn mark on your index figure or your obscene behavior to the situation. No, it's for a much deeper reason that was clearly shown by that little interruption. You're clumsy. You're him years ago. He's you. He's laughing, and you're there. An ugly look to your face.
You scream that you love him, just as he had done years ago and he responds with a cold look. Tells you that your relationship is strictly sex mocking your response to his outburst of love on you. Unlike yourself, he used to have compassion. He used to have a soul. A very beautiful one at that. It's gone now, either in heaven with the Gods or in hell with the devil. You pray that it's in heaven, safe and warm, but it's clear that you want it in hell. So, when you die, you can see it again.
Author: catbrains
Pairing: Gerard Way/Bert McCracken
Rating: PG
POV: Bert’s
Summary: "Now you're no longer the bully, but the victim. Worse. You're a victim to him, irony, and yourself all in one."
Disclaimer: I don’t own Gerard Way, Bert McCracken or any other member of My Chemical Romance or The Used.
Author Note: My first slash fiction in mychemicalslash, so let’s see how that goes. And I want to thank jennyguttierrez for being my lovely Beta.
A man lost his dignity, his dominance, the only things in life that strives a man to live. You laugh. Irony, like a God, watches and you find yourself in such a position years later. He laughs instead. Oh, that boy. He made a deal with God. He's either an angel to irony or a demon to fate. Cigarettes in his right hand and condoms in his left. The only two things that can replace his long lost and forgotten soul. You want to go up to him and ask him if it was worth it. You're too afraid, though, because you know in some twisted way, he's less of a scum than you.
The room suddenly becomes warm and comfortable, and you look up to see a smirk slapped across his face. You hate the feeling, no, you're just jealous. Because you know, that you're the one who made the room cold and uncomfortable in the first place. How this became so, you can't quite understand. You used to sit back, laugh a little, as he willingly gave up anything and everything for you. God hates you. Because you took as much advantage as you could, draining him dead cold, and left him there when he had nothing else to give. Now you're no longer the bully, but the victim. Worse. You're a victim to him, irony, and yourself all in one.
You want to feel rotten, learn your lesson through this experience, but you don't. Instead you let out a smug `humph' and let ignorance and the last of your pride get in your way. You let it cut you into pieces and serve you to him on a platter. And he eats you, napkin on lap. You wouldn't mind so much if he just ate your body, but no, he goes deeper than that. He eats your soul, your mind, your existence. Till you are nothing but an empty body with scars covering you from head to toe. Not those normal scars either. No, nothing like those `battle wounds' you tell stories about when you're old. These scars seep through your skin, through your bones, through your blood. They enter your head and drive you crazy, making you scream obscenities at night and cry during the day. The scars that never go away. Not even when you die.
He whispers sweet words in your ear, but you can't hear anything. You want to, hoping that it'll make you forget about the whole situation, but God doesn't want you to forget. It want you to remember. It wants everything hard on you. God wants nothing easy.
You place a drag in your mouth and dig in your pockets for a lighter, starting to panic when you can't find your 99 cent lighter. He pulls out his and lights the cigarette placed on your lips. Normally he doesn't allow you to smoke indoors, but like a child you keep trying hoping that he'll let go of that rule. This day is anything but normal, though. You and he both know it, and rules need to be broken on abnormal days like this.
Smoke exits your mouth as your eyes roll back from relief. There is still a lot of tension crawling on your shoulders, though. A cigarette cannot block out the déjà vu reeking in the room. You're a fool for believing so. You find your hand on his lap, a slow move, but you feared to do much of anything to him. His stare is powerful, but only under the state Irony has pushed you in. It pulls you closer, and it seems he wants this as much as you.
You kiss, briefly, but it was a kiss nonetheless. It follows with a smile from both him and you. Then a seduced moan and next thing you know he's on top of you. You couldn't have wanted anything more, and for a quick second, you think that maybe you thought wrong all along. God really did love you. You grunt from a small pain in your fingers and look to see what it was. The cigarette burning on your fingers brings you back to reality. You couldn't hate fate more than this. Not that fate liked you to begin with.
He laughs, but you know it's not because of a burn mark on your index figure or your obscene behavior to the situation. No, it's for a much deeper reason that was clearly shown by that little interruption. You're clumsy. You're him years ago. He's you. He's laughing, and you're there. An ugly look to your face.
You scream that you love him, just as he had done years ago and he responds with a cold look. Tells you that your relationship is strictly sex mocking your response to his outburst of love on you. Unlike yourself, he used to have compassion. He used to have a soul. A very beautiful one at that. It's gone now, either in heaven with the Gods or in hell with the devil. You pray that it's in heaven, safe and warm, but it's clear that you want it in hell. So, when you die, you can see it again.