Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Karma Police
Had to put this up again because of stupid old FuckWad >_<
-Jane
Hello, ladies and gents, Lornaigh here.
Yes, that's right. The same Lornaigh who wrote the Warped Tour fic, the Mafia fic, obsesses over Radiohead and pumps her stories full of author's notes.
Yep. That Lornaigh.
Anyway-this story line has been niggling at the back of my mind for a long time now. It's really weird and strange, (or, as writers say, 'original') and to my knowledge I haven't read anything like this on FicWad before. I had an idea when I was listening to Radiohead (duh) and I was like 'wow I should really write a fic about this' becauser they're awesome and then I figured I should put MCR in it, because they too are awesome, and then I figured I should make it a Frerard because...hell, Frerard is awesome too, that shit is all I can write.
Y'all know the drill, I don't own MCR, I never have, blah blah blah...I have a few chapters of this written already; we'll see how this whole thing pans out. The titles are random and whatever, but yeah. Lemme know if ye want to hear more of this.
More will be explaine din the next chapter, mates.
xo lornaigh.
Karma Police
Gerard Way was an asshole.
Honest. Everyone thought so. He mighta been the most popular guy in high school but that was all part of his showy, shitty facade. At the age of seventeen, he's slept with so many guys he'd lost goddamn count. He mouths off to his teachers, his parents, his brother, even his friends; he fights constantly with his boyfriend and cheats on him while at rave parties and night clubs. He snorts coke and drinks like a regular hope-to-die junkie. Fights on a daily basis and he's gotten into shit with the local gangs because of his big mouth and his busy fists.
So, all in all, a major asshole.
Now, Gerard had no problem with this. He never wanted to freaking change. He loved his rockstar lifestyle, and never wanted to go back to his geeky days of being chubby and the large glasses propped up on his nose. He was tall and toned, tanned with black messy hair; his man-slap was carefully applied but ended up smudged and sexy by the end of the day-he could get anyone he wanted to. Why, just last week, he had fucked a thirty year old guy in a punk club. He fuckin loves being a badass.
Or, at least, that's what he tells his friends.
It was a crisp summer's day when it happened. Gerard was bunking off school with Bert, his boyfriend of six months. Both boys had huge egos and an insatiable sex drive, and once they got home they would fuck the living daylights out of each other. But today, during English class, the pair had engaged in a brawl. Bert had invited Gerard to a shindig tonight that would involve drugs and booze, a lotta empty couches. The party would last for two whole days. McCracken had been practically bouncing in his seat when he told Gerard.
But Way had said no.
The truth was, Gerard didn't care for Bert. He was a good fuck and that was about it. He got all crabby and defensive when the younger boy would try and hold his hand or kiss him in public; he certainly was not a prude by any means, he just found himself getting irritated. He supposed he just didn't-cue shudder-love Bert. So he'd said no, big fucking deal.
And now Bert was giving him the silent treatment.
"Look," Gerard says now, running his fingers through his own raven hair. "Babe, I just said no because we have a shit-ton of homework tonight and my mom is getting real threatening on my ass. You know how it is, Bertie, I can't go to everything that pops up..."
The boy with the shaggy brown hair looks annoyed and indignant as they walk down the bustling Jersey street. Mothers with push-chairs and business men in suits on lunch breaks. Some people give the teenagers a glare as they passed; one of those aren't you meant to be in school? insinuation.
"That's bullshit and you know it," he snaps back. "Since when does Gerard Way give a fuck about homework? Or what his mom says? You're lying," Bert accused, shaking his head. "I know what it is. You don't love me."
Gerard let out an exasperated sigh as they cross the street.
"God, can you quit with that crap? You watch too much damn Oprah, I swear," the older boy replies. "It's not like we're a fucking married couple, Bert. Jesus Christ, what do you want from me?"
"Maybe for you to stop fucking every guy you meet?" McCracken suggests cheekily, and the bully glared at him. "Honestly, Gerard, I'm sick of your shit. You are such a pain in the fucking ass. You're not even a good fuck." Bert shakes his head and sighs, slipping his Jansport over his shoulder. "I'm not dealing with this right now. Tell Mikey I say hey and I feel for him for having such a shit brother."
Way rolls his eyes and spits angry curse words under his breath as his boyfriend stalks away into the grey Newark prime-time crowds. Some people are so dramatic. He gives an irriatated grunt and pulls out a smoke, lighting up in a doorway. He hates everyone. Every single person on thie goddamn planet. They're all so stupid and sensitive, so fucking PMS-y. Why can't everyone just chillax?
He storms on to his house, earphones blaring. He doesn't even remotely care what's playing; some generic rock song about depression and alcohol and suicide. Every one's the same. The same cynical, yet heart-broken lyrics, the same pretentious lead singer, the same shitty guitar solo. He's about to switch the damn machine off when a broken guitar string twangs right in his ear.
Karma police, arrested this man...
Gerard doesn't like this song, but he doesn't change it. He doesn't even like Radiohead that much; Mikey, his younger brother, just put it on because they share laptops or whatever. But today...today the lyrics haunt him. They aren't just in his ears, the melody seems to warp it's way into his brain and swirl around in his head. The lead singer's voice is haunting, horrible and hollow. He picks up most of the lyrics but those two in particular ring out; karma police.
This is what you get when you mess with us…
It's when Thom Yorke murmurs that line that Gerard gives a little jump and rips the earphones from him. He can still hear it in his mind, teasing and tugging at his emotions, as stupid as that sounds. This is as harsh as inhaling meth; it physically gives him a headache as he turns the key into the lock. He grunts and squeezes his eyes shut as he does; cussing. That’s it; no more Mikey using his laptop.
Gerard hears his fourteen-year-old brother bid him greeting but doesn’t respond, just simply shrugging and storming up the stairs. Damn, that fucking fight with Bert is gonna put him in a bad mood for the goddamn whole weekend. And fuck, that stupid song is still in his brain. He throws his head from side to side, trying desperately to evict the tune, but to no avail. The bridge swills stubbornly, almost mockingly, around his ears, his head, and feels like it’s fucking spreading.
This is what you get when you mess with us…
He hisses as he pushes the door open to his room, posters and clothes and CD’s and brass knuckles and knives and dirty dishes lie idle. He throws his bag from his shoulder and moans again as the words feel like they’re physically pounding, dragging him down into a harsh pool of self-regret. It fucking hurts. Maybe this is a side-effect of the smack he did last week? Or a really, really strong hangover?
This is what you get when you mess with us…
No. No way-it’s a lot more than that. Gerard isn’t the smartest guy on the block but he knows this is out of the league when it comes to hangovers; this is fucking lethal. His head feels like it’s gonna split down the middle and his brain will tumble to the floor. His hands tug at his hair and slap his forehead but the song is still in place, that little crooning hum just whispering in his ear. This is no fucking hangover, my friend.
Gerard moans again, cusses, and bashes his head against a nearby wall. He’s never experienced this ever with music, not with his favourite band Iron Maiden or even some Justin Bieber shit; why is some weird indie song from the nineties making such an impression on him? It’s not even that catchy, or particularly a lyrical masterpiece or certainly not very uplifting. He has no fricking idea what’s happening. He bashes his skull harder against the plaster and groans loudly, and can feel blood trickle down his nose.
This is what you get when you mess with us…
"Fuck!" He shouts, clasping fistfuls of his hair and shaking his head madly, raven locks splaying across like the tail of a dog. "Ugh, fuck, get outta my head! Or at least take some goddamn singing lessons, dude! I wanna fucking beat you outta my goddamn-UGH!" He screams louder as the lyrics seem to shriek more and more emphasized in his cranium, crushing and squeezing his skull. Now it sounds like it’s angry, and frustrated-
THIS IS WHAT YOU GET WHEN YOU MESS WITH US…
“Gee?” Mikey’s nervous, timid voice comes from downstairs. The older boy feels like ripping his face off for putting the goddamn song on his-FUCK, the song keeps getting louder and louder in his head. His lungs feel constricting as he twitches. "Gee, are you alright? I heard shouting."
“Fucking right you heard shouting!” Gerard screeches back, only for the seering pain to strike again, right bang in the centre of his forehead. It’s screaming at him now, the song; so loud and so sore he can barely function. He struggles to come up with words to answer his younger brother. His younger brother with such an irritating taste in music… "Yeah, Mikey, I’m fine…ugh…"
The bully bites his lip and picks himself up slowly, cradling his head. He feels weak and exhausted. He figures he can just bunk off and relax for the rest of the day; it’s Friday, after all, and Rebecca Black says it herself-just chillax, man. Way takes a deep breath and tries to ignore the song, which has now reduced to a bare murmur, and drags himself over to his desk.
That’s when he sees the boy perched on his windowsill.
Now, Gerard, on top of being a douche bag and a cruel little bitch, was a very vain boy. He’d look in the mirror every morning and see a fucking angel looking back at him; he knew he was good-looking. Everyone, whether friend or foe, agreed with him, and would beg anything to be with the kid. He was just fucking gorgeous. He’d seen all the current heart-throbs-Pattison, Cooper, Efron…and sure, they were pretty boys, but he’d never seen anyone as hot as himself.
Until today.
The kid on the ledge was fifteen at most. He wore a small, polite smile on soft lips, one of which was pierced with a silver ring, and the beam seemed to extend to his eyes. Honey brown, they seemed, the lightest shade of hazel you could find. Gerard’s cold, hard exterior seemed to melt a little as he looked at the other, with windswept chocolate hair and flawless, perfect, bright white skin.
The most unusual thing about the boy was what he was wearing- a navy military uniform, it looked like. Old-fashioned and tight, it hugged his small waist, and the chest was decorated with gold medals and pins. A black armband, similar to those worn by police in the army, clung around his left arm, and read two letters across it; KP. He looked so formal in the clothes, and they were most definitely a uniform; his bottom half was covered in dark dress trousers and leather shoes.
Gerard stared. The boy stared back, unspeaking.
"What the fuck are you doing in my goddamn room?!" He snarls agrily. This day had been fucking fabulous; break up with your boyfriend, some stupid fucking song won’t get outta your head and now some random-sexy, yes, but still breaking and entering-kid in a fucking gay naval uniform is sitting on your fucking window ledge. Someone call the cops, Gerard’s so happy right now he might explode. "Get the fuck out you fucking-" he reaches for a nearby lamp and throws it at the stranger. Then, right before his eyes, it turns to flame and burns up into black dust. The ashes fall to the floor in a pathetic heap.
This is what you get when you mess with us..
"Listen,I dunno who the fuck you are, but you need to get the fuck outta my house," he says quickly, wiping sweat from his forehead. The other boy says nothing, but wears a quizzical expression as Gerard shouts at him. The bully steps nearer to him, but for some reason, doesn’t touch him. Don’t get the wrong end of the stick here, the kid was about five three and one twenty, but his aura was…formidable. "If you leave right now, I might not call the cops on your ass." He snorts in disgust. "Thought you army bastards were meant to be courageous and shit."
The boy in the blue uniform is still silent. He says absolutely nothing, just sitting there and gazing up at Gerard. Eventually Way snaps and snarls at him.
"Look, I don’t know what the fuck you are or whatever, but I’ve had just about the shittiest fucking day ever, so I’m just gonna call the pigs and get you outta my face, okay? I don’t need some underage little army brat breaking and entering in my house, my mom is gonna ground me for a month or something-"
"Don’t reach for the door," he finally says in a soft, breathy lisp. Gerard’s blood runs cold-he had just told his arm to reach for the doorknob via bentral nervous system, and had hardly thought about it. How did this freak know he was gonna go for it? He looks back to the boy in aghast as the naval kid twitches a little and Gerard hears his door lock. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…what is this sick cunt, Voldemort? Some cute version of Tom goddamn Riddle? "It’s locked, Gerard."
Gerard?
"How the fuck do you know my name?" The bully demands, temper snapping again,this time a little weaker…a little more vulnerable, prone to pain. "How the shit did you get in-and lock my door-and burrn my goddamn lamp-you sonuvabitch-I-" he sighs and groans. "Who the fuck are you?"
The boy giggles a little, ever so adorable, and bites his lip. Then he faces Gerard.
"I’m your karma police officer, Gee," he breathes, and giggles again. "This is what you get when you mess with us."
-Jane
Hello, ladies and gents, Lornaigh here.
Yes, that's right. The same Lornaigh who wrote the Warped Tour fic, the Mafia fic, obsesses over Radiohead and pumps her stories full of author's notes.
Yep. That Lornaigh.
Anyway-this story line has been niggling at the back of my mind for a long time now. It's really weird and strange, (or, as writers say, 'original') and to my knowledge I haven't read anything like this on FicWad before. I had an idea when I was listening to Radiohead (duh) and I was like 'wow I should really write a fic about this' becauser they're awesome and then I figured I should put MCR in it, because they too are awesome, and then I figured I should make it a Frerard because...hell, Frerard is awesome too, that shit is all I can write.
Y'all know the drill, I don't own MCR, I never have, blah blah blah...I have a few chapters of this written already; we'll see how this whole thing pans out. The titles are random and whatever, but yeah. Lemme know if ye want to hear more of this.
More will be explaine din the next chapter, mates.
xo lornaigh.
Karma Police
Gerard Way was an asshole.
Honest. Everyone thought so. He mighta been the most popular guy in high school but that was all part of his showy, shitty facade. At the age of seventeen, he's slept with so many guys he'd lost goddamn count. He mouths off to his teachers, his parents, his brother, even his friends; he fights constantly with his boyfriend and cheats on him while at rave parties and night clubs. He snorts coke and drinks like a regular hope-to-die junkie. Fights on a daily basis and he's gotten into shit with the local gangs because of his big mouth and his busy fists.
So, all in all, a major asshole.
Now, Gerard had no problem with this. He never wanted to freaking change. He loved his rockstar lifestyle, and never wanted to go back to his geeky days of being chubby and the large glasses propped up on his nose. He was tall and toned, tanned with black messy hair; his man-slap was carefully applied but ended up smudged and sexy by the end of the day-he could get anyone he wanted to. Why, just last week, he had fucked a thirty year old guy in a punk club. He fuckin loves being a badass.
Or, at least, that's what he tells his friends.
It was a crisp summer's day when it happened. Gerard was bunking off school with Bert, his boyfriend of six months. Both boys had huge egos and an insatiable sex drive, and once they got home they would fuck the living daylights out of each other. But today, during English class, the pair had engaged in a brawl. Bert had invited Gerard to a shindig tonight that would involve drugs and booze, a lotta empty couches. The party would last for two whole days. McCracken had been practically bouncing in his seat when he told Gerard.
But Way had said no.
The truth was, Gerard didn't care for Bert. He was a good fuck and that was about it. He got all crabby and defensive when the younger boy would try and hold his hand or kiss him in public; he certainly was not a prude by any means, he just found himself getting irritated. He supposed he just didn't-cue shudder-love Bert. So he'd said no, big fucking deal.
And now Bert was giving him the silent treatment.
"Look," Gerard says now, running his fingers through his own raven hair. "Babe, I just said no because we have a shit-ton of homework tonight and my mom is getting real threatening on my ass. You know how it is, Bertie, I can't go to everything that pops up..."
The boy with the shaggy brown hair looks annoyed and indignant as they walk down the bustling Jersey street. Mothers with push-chairs and business men in suits on lunch breaks. Some people give the teenagers a glare as they passed; one of those aren't you meant to be in school? insinuation.
"That's bullshit and you know it," he snaps back. "Since when does Gerard Way give a fuck about homework? Or what his mom says? You're lying," Bert accused, shaking his head. "I know what it is. You don't love me."
Gerard let out an exasperated sigh as they cross the street.
"God, can you quit with that crap? You watch too much damn Oprah, I swear," the older boy replies. "It's not like we're a fucking married couple, Bert. Jesus Christ, what do you want from me?"
"Maybe for you to stop fucking every guy you meet?" McCracken suggests cheekily, and the bully glared at him. "Honestly, Gerard, I'm sick of your shit. You are such a pain in the fucking ass. You're not even a good fuck." Bert shakes his head and sighs, slipping his Jansport over his shoulder. "I'm not dealing with this right now. Tell Mikey I say hey and I feel for him for having such a shit brother."
Way rolls his eyes and spits angry curse words under his breath as his boyfriend stalks away into the grey Newark prime-time crowds. Some people are so dramatic. He gives an irriatated grunt and pulls out a smoke, lighting up in a doorway. He hates everyone. Every single person on thie goddamn planet. They're all so stupid and sensitive, so fucking PMS-y. Why can't everyone just chillax?
He storms on to his house, earphones blaring. He doesn't even remotely care what's playing; some generic rock song about depression and alcohol and suicide. Every one's the same. The same cynical, yet heart-broken lyrics, the same pretentious lead singer, the same shitty guitar solo. He's about to switch the damn machine off when a broken guitar string twangs right in his ear.
Karma police, arrested this man...
Gerard doesn't like this song, but he doesn't change it. He doesn't even like Radiohead that much; Mikey, his younger brother, just put it on because they share laptops or whatever. But today...today the lyrics haunt him. They aren't just in his ears, the melody seems to warp it's way into his brain and swirl around in his head. The lead singer's voice is haunting, horrible and hollow. He picks up most of the lyrics but those two in particular ring out; karma police.
This is what you get when you mess with us…
It's when Thom Yorke murmurs that line that Gerard gives a little jump and rips the earphones from him. He can still hear it in his mind, teasing and tugging at his emotions, as stupid as that sounds. This is as harsh as inhaling meth; it physically gives him a headache as he turns the key into the lock. He grunts and squeezes his eyes shut as he does; cussing. That’s it; no more Mikey using his laptop.
Gerard hears his fourteen-year-old brother bid him greeting but doesn’t respond, just simply shrugging and storming up the stairs. Damn, that fucking fight with Bert is gonna put him in a bad mood for the goddamn whole weekend. And fuck, that stupid song is still in his brain. He throws his head from side to side, trying desperately to evict the tune, but to no avail. The bridge swills stubbornly, almost mockingly, around his ears, his head, and feels like it’s fucking spreading.
This is what you get when you mess with us…
He hisses as he pushes the door open to his room, posters and clothes and CD’s and brass knuckles and knives and dirty dishes lie idle. He throws his bag from his shoulder and moans again as the words feel like they’re physically pounding, dragging him down into a harsh pool of self-regret. It fucking hurts. Maybe this is a side-effect of the smack he did last week? Or a really, really strong hangover?
This is what you get when you mess with us…
No. No way-it’s a lot more than that. Gerard isn’t the smartest guy on the block but he knows this is out of the league when it comes to hangovers; this is fucking lethal. His head feels like it’s gonna split down the middle and his brain will tumble to the floor. His hands tug at his hair and slap his forehead but the song is still in place, that little crooning hum just whispering in his ear. This is no fucking hangover, my friend.
Gerard moans again, cusses, and bashes his head against a nearby wall. He’s never experienced this ever with music, not with his favourite band Iron Maiden or even some Justin Bieber shit; why is some weird indie song from the nineties making such an impression on him? It’s not even that catchy, or particularly a lyrical masterpiece or certainly not very uplifting. He has no fricking idea what’s happening. He bashes his skull harder against the plaster and groans loudly, and can feel blood trickle down his nose.
This is what you get when you mess with us…
"Fuck!" He shouts, clasping fistfuls of his hair and shaking his head madly, raven locks splaying across like the tail of a dog. "Ugh, fuck, get outta my head! Or at least take some goddamn singing lessons, dude! I wanna fucking beat you outta my goddamn-UGH!" He screams louder as the lyrics seem to shriek more and more emphasized in his cranium, crushing and squeezing his skull. Now it sounds like it’s angry, and frustrated-
THIS IS WHAT YOU GET WHEN YOU MESS WITH US…
“Gee?” Mikey’s nervous, timid voice comes from downstairs. The older boy feels like ripping his face off for putting the goddamn song on his-FUCK, the song keeps getting louder and louder in his head. His lungs feel constricting as he twitches. "Gee, are you alright? I heard shouting."
“Fucking right you heard shouting!” Gerard screeches back, only for the seering pain to strike again, right bang in the centre of his forehead. It’s screaming at him now, the song; so loud and so sore he can barely function. He struggles to come up with words to answer his younger brother. His younger brother with such an irritating taste in music… "Yeah, Mikey, I’m fine…ugh…"
The bully bites his lip and picks himself up slowly, cradling his head. He feels weak and exhausted. He figures he can just bunk off and relax for the rest of the day; it’s Friday, after all, and Rebecca Black says it herself-just chillax, man. Way takes a deep breath and tries to ignore the song, which has now reduced to a bare murmur, and drags himself over to his desk.
That’s when he sees the boy perched on his windowsill.
Now, Gerard, on top of being a douche bag and a cruel little bitch, was a very vain boy. He’d look in the mirror every morning and see a fucking angel looking back at him; he knew he was good-looking. Everyone, whether friend or foe, agreed with him, and would beg anything to be with the kid. He was just fucking gorgeous. He’d seen all the current heart-throbs-Pattison, Cooper, Efron…and sure, they were pretty boys, but he’d never seen anyone as hot as himself.
Until today.
The kid on the ledge was fifteen at most. He wore a small, polite smile on soft lips, one of which was pierced with a silver ring, and the beam seemed to extend to his eyes. Honey brown, they seemed, the lightest shade of hazel you could find. Gerard’s cold, hard exterior seemed to melt a little as he looked at the other, with windswept chocolate hair and flawless, perfect, bright white skin.
The most unusual thing about the boy was what he was wearing- a navy military uniform, it looked like. Old-fashioned and tight, it hugged his small waist, and the chest was decorated with gold medals and pins. A black armband, similar to those worn by police in the army, clung around his left arm, and read two letters across it; KP. He looked so formal in the clothes, and they were most definitely a uniform; his bottom half was covered in dark dress trousers and leather shoes.
Gerard stared. The boy stared back, unspeaking.
"What the fuck are you doing in my goddamn room?!" He snarls agrily. This day had been fucking fabulous; break up with your boyfriend, some stupid fucking song won’t get outta your head and now some random-sexy, yes, but still breaking and entering-kid in a fucking gay naval uniform is sitting on your fucking window ledge. Someone call the cops, Gerard’s so happy right now he might explode. "Get the fuck out you fucking-" he reaches for a nearby lamp and throws it at the stranger. Then, right before his eyes, it turns to flame and burns up into black dust. The ashes fall to the floor in a pathetic heap.
This is what you get when you mess with us..
"Listen,I dunno who the fuck you are, but you need to get the fuck outta my house," he says quickly, wiping sweat from his forehead. The other boy says nothing, but wears a quizzical expression as Gerard shouts at him. The bully steps nearer to him, but for some reason, doesn’t touch him. Don’t get the wrong end of the stick here, the kid was about five three and one twenty, but his aura was…formidable. "If you leave right now, I might not call the cops on your ass." He snorts in disgust. "Thought you army bastards were meant to be courageous and shit."
The boy in the blue uniform is still silent. He says absolutely nothing, just sitting there and gazing up at Gerard. Eventually Way snaps and snarls at him.
"Look, I don’t know what the fuck you are or whatever, but I’ve had just about the shittiest fucking day ever, so I’m just gonna call the pigs and get you outta my face, okay? I don’t need some underage little army brat breaking and entering in my house, my mom is gonna ground me for a month or something-"
"Don’t reach for the door," he finally says in a soft, breathy lisp. Gerard’s blood runs cold-he had just told his arm to reach for the doorknob via bentral nervous system, and had hardly thought about it. How did this freak know he was gonna go for it? He looks back to the boy in aghast as the naval kid twitches a little and Gerard hears his door lock. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…what is this sick cunt, Voldemort? Some cute version of Tom goddamn Riddle? "It’s locked, Gerard."
Gerard?
"How the fuck do you know my name?" The bully demands, temper snapping again,this time a little weaker…a little more vulnerable, prone to pain. "How the shit did you get in-and lock my door-and burrn my goddamn lamp-you sonuvabitch-I-" he sighs and groans. "Who the fuck are you?"
The boy giggles a little, ever so adorable, and bites his lip. Then he faces Gerard.
"I’m your karma police officer, Gee," he breathes, and giggles again. "This is what you get when you mess with us."
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