Original Fic: Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me, 1/1
What is this, you ask? An original piece of fiction? But I thought Caitlin didn't write original fiction? The answer: um, she doesn't. Usually. But I've been suddenly blasted by plot bunnies for original pieces, and instead of doing something important like working on the three Heroes fics I've started, I've written this quite demented piece. And I'm actually pleased with it. Weird.
Title: Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me
Rating: M
Characters/Pairing: OMCxOFC
Warnings: language, mentions of drugs/alcohol, rape, murder, self-injury, abuse, mild sexual references
Summary: They feed off each other's misery and pain; it's what they've always done. But he thinks she's gone too far this time.
They were walking, no real destination in mind. Just walking.
Depression had that effect on people.
At least, on her it did. She knew he’d rather be home curled up in bed or smashing his fist through the garage door, but she needed this - needed to get out of her fucking house and shut up her fucking mind. He was just along for the ride.
Aimless wandering had led them to an abandoned parking lot; once the grand home of the local K-Mart™, it was nothing now but overgrown weeds and broken asphalt. She would’ve called it fate, if she believed in such a thing.
It was there that they sat, drinking their troubles away with a pint scotch they’d picked up amidst their wandering, and talking.
Just talking.
Because when all else failed, that’s what they did.
He was laughing at her; sure, it was a hollow, haunted laugh, but it was still a sound - a noise - that resembled that of a human, instead of the zombies she felt them becoming.
“You think I’m joking, but I’m not,” she mumbled, tipping the bottle of scotch back. She grimaced. She hated scotch, but it was his favorite drink. And she would do anything for him.
“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “I’m laughing because I know it’s true. Because our lives are just that fucked up.”
“We are pretty demented, aren’t we?” There was that sound again, that empty laugh. It was so foreign to her ears.
“Sick,” he amended.
“Twisted,” she added.
They fell into a mutual depressive silence, allowing themselves to be tormented by their own minds once again. They never asked what the other was thinking; they just knew, from time spent with each other, from talks similar to this one, what was bothering the other.
Because even during the darkest days, they would still find time and energy to call the other: to vent, to rant, to cry (though the latter was on rare occasions only - they had both learned how to keep the tears at bay). They were confidants; even lovers were not as close as they were, and they just fucked on occasion.
They both knew they could never be. While wonderful friends, they were too different to be “together”. Or maybe they were too similar. Maybe it was the fear of dragging the other down with him/her. Of not being able to recover because they were both too busy feeding off each other’s pain and misery, because their entire relationship would be fucked up from start to messy finish, and only hinder all the progress they had made as friends.
Or maybe they were just scared.
Or maybe… Or maybe she was just making excuses.
“So you won’t?” she prodded quietly, hoping that perhaps time and thought had changed his mind.
He gave her the look - the one she knew so well - the one that said she already knew the answer. But still she batted her eyes at him and pouted her lips. “What if I said ‘pretty please’?”
“I don’t hit girls.”
She sighed and tried again. “But if it’s consensual, then it’s not abuse, right?”
And there was that look again.
She groaned in frustration and need. “Look, you’re pissed off, on the verge of going on a fucking killing spree, and I’m dying for fucking pain. It’s practically fucking perfect.”
And it was perfect, because they were both addicts in their own ways. There were the drugs, tobacco, and alcohol, of course - the usual suspects - everyone’s dirty little secrets. They were dull and passé, used mostly to try to rid themselves of their bigger afflictions, the ones that had landed him in the mental hospital and had her body scarred worse than a victim of torture.
He had fantasies about raping and murdering; she used any means necessary to cause herself pain.
He had been diagnosed with multiple personalities and bi-polar disorder; she was clinically depressed and anorexic.
He had tried to kill his family; she had tried to kill herself.
They had settled into a somewhat uneasy relationship with their flaws. He took practically every pill imaginable, and she kept any self-inflicted injuries well away from any major artery or organ. He gave her his vicodin and whatever anti-depressant he was on that week; she gave him blow jobs and paid for his groceries.
They were symbionts in their own shitty little world.
“I’ve only ever hurt two women,” he revised, lighting another cigarette.
“Oh yeah?”
“The first was an ex - well, they were both exes, actually. The first was in sixth grade. She told me to go fuck my mom, so I grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against a fucking bookcase and held her there until she turned blue.
“And the other time was only because of one of my fucking multiples; I started fucking throwing Amber around, and she fucking pulled a knife on me, so I grabbed my blade and stuck her first.”
As always, stories such as these less-than-shocked her; one of the advantages of being friends with a primary psychopath.
But despite being a psychopath and a murderer, he was, perhaps, the sweetest, most romantic man she had ever encountered. Ever. And even if she didn’t want to admit it, she had known the answer to her question long before she had asked it.
But it didn’t mean she wasn’t slightly disappointed, and even jealous of the aforementioned women.
“Hmm,” she mused.
He rolled his eyes. “What?”
“I don’t know if I like that about you or hate that about you.”
“What? Not hitting girls?”
She took a drag from his cigarette.
“Not hurting me.”
Title: Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me
Rating: M
Characters/Pairing: OMCxOFC
Warnings: language, mentions of drugs/alcohol, rape, murder, self-injury, abuse, mild sexual references
Summary: They feed off each other's misery and pain; it's what they've always done. But he thinks she's gone too far this time.
They were walking, no real destination in mind. Just walking.
Depression had that effect on people.
At least, on her it did. She knew he’d rather be home curled up in bed or smashing his fist through the garage door, but she needed this - needed to get out of her fucking house and shut up her fucking mind. He was just along for the ride.
Aimless wandering had led them to an abandoned parking lot; once the grand home of the local K-Mart™, it was nothing now but overgrown weeds and broken asphalt. She would’ve called it fate, if she believed in such a thing.
It was there that they sat, drinking their troubles away with a pint scotch they’d picked up amidst their wandering, and talking.
Just talking.
Because when all else failed, that’s what they did.
He was laughing at her; sure, it was a hollow, haunted laugh, but it was still a sound - a noise - that resembled that of a human, instead of the zombies she felt them becoming.
“You think I’m joking, but I’m not,” she mumbled, tipping the bottle of scotch back. She grimaced. She hated scotch, but it was his favorite drink. And she would do anything for him.
“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “I’m laughing because I know it’s true. Because our lives are just that fucked up.”
“We are pretty demented, aren’t we?” There was that sound again, that empty laugh. It was so foreign to her ears.
“Sick,” he amended.
“Twisted,” she added.
They fell into a mutual depressive silence, allowing themselves to be tormented by their own minds once again. They never asked what the other was thinking; they just knew, from time spent with each other, from talks similar to this one, what was bothering the other.
Because even during the darkest days, they would still find time and energy to call the other: to vent, to rant, to cry (though the latter was on rare occasions only - they had both learned how to keep the tears at bay). They were confidants; even lovers were not as close as they were, and they just fucked on occasion.
They both knew they could never be. While wonderful friends, they were too different to be “together”. Or maybe they were too similar. Maybe it was the fear of dragging the other down with him/her. Of not being able to recover because they were both too busy feeding off each other’s pain and misery, because their entire relationship would be fucked up from start to messy finish, and only hinder all the progress they had made as friends.
Or maybe they were just scared.
Or maybe… Or maybe she was just making excuses.
“So you won’t?” she prodded quietly, hoping that perhaps time and thought had changed his mind.
He gave her the look - the one she knew so well - the one that said she already knew the answer. But still she batted her eyes at him and pouted her lips. “What if I said ‘pretty please’?”
“I don’t hit girls.”
She sighed and tried again. “But if it’s consensual, then it’s not abuse, right?”
And there was that look again.
She groaned in frustration and need. “Look, you’re pissed off, on the verge of going on a fucking killing spree, and I’m dying for fucking pain. It’s practically fucking perfect.”
And it was perfect, because they were both addicts in their own ways. There were the drugs, tobacco, and alcohol, of course - the usual suspects - everyone’s dirty little secrets. They were dull and passé, used mostly to try to rid themselves of their bigger afflictions, the ones that had landed him in the mental hospital and had her body scarred worse than a victim of torture.
He had fantasies about raping and murdering; she used any means necessary to cause herself pain.
He had been diagnosed with multiple personalities and bi-polar disorder; she was clinically depressed and anorexic.
He had tried to kill his family; she had tried to kill herself.
They had settled into a somewhat uneasy relationship with their flaws. He took practically every pill imaginable, and she kept any self-inflicted injuries well away from any major artery or organ. He gave her his vicodin and whatever anti-depressant he was on that week; she gave him blow jobs and paid for his groceries.
They were symbionts in their own shitty little world.
“I’ve only ever hurt two women,” he revised, lighting another cigarette.
“Oh yeah?”
“The first was an ex - well, they were both exes, actually. The first was in sixth grade. She told me to go fuck my mom, so I grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against a fucking bookcase and held her there until she turned blue.
“And the other time was only because of one of my fucking multiples; I started fucking throwing Amber around, and she fucking pulled a knife on me, so I grabbed my blade and stuck her first.”
As always, stories such as these less-than-shocked her; one of the advantages of being friends with a primary psychopath.
But despite being a psychopath and a murderer, he was, perhaps, the sweetest, most romantic man she had ever encountered. Ever. And even if she didn’t want to admit it, she had known the answer to her question long before she had asked it.
But it didn’t mean she wasn’t slightly disappointed, and even jealous of the aforementioned women.
“Hmm,” she mused.
He rolled his eyes. “What?”
“I don’t know if I like that about you or hate that about you.”
“What? Not hitting girls?”
She took a drag from his cigarette.
“Not hurting me.”