A/N:I only own this. Besides, someone should really take away all my vampire books. Seriously.
Title: Pretty Burning.
Rating: R, perhaps NC-17 in the future.
Spoilers: Um, sort of AU. Hard to explain, just go with it
Warnings: This is way out of touch with reality and tends to dabble in darker themes and the supernatural. That's what makes it so fun. But please give it a shot anyways.
Pretty Burning
Chapter I: Honorable Mention for Self-Desecration
"Welcome to my world, he said
Do you feel alive, he said,
It's all a bad dream spinning in your lonely head.
Welcome to my world, he said
Separated world,
He said, separated
Down poison…"
- Down Poison- 3 Doors Down (all he is originally she)
It should come as no surprise that there is something about him. Something to be said about Thomas Quincy. It's something you can't quite put your finger on, enigmatic, dominant, superfluous in all of his being. No matter who you are or how much you want to wipe the smug, arrogant constant smirk off his face.
He draws you in with his sugar sweet smile, pretty white teeth, piercing eyes that penetrate you, leaving you with thoughts the you should be pinned underneath him, screaming as he touches you in foreign place that your parents taught you are sacrilegious. Those images are always in your head, even if he's not around. Kind of like he's invading every worthwhile thought you've ever had.
He brings you up to let you fall. Over and over again. And that's when your realizes that there's something wrong with you because you let him revel in your pain, the pain that he causes, and you find yourself an purposely becoming an emotional masochist. Because he's Thomas Fucking Quincy.
He is fucking gravity. Not like gravity, but is.
And you know from personal experience.
No matter how many late night conversations you have, endless platonic flirting, or just those afternoons where he drives you home in complete silence, as his calloused hand envelopes your tiny hand the has grasped the gear stick. His hand is forcefully guiding yours with the shift and you can't help but to fight back a gasp at the feel of his skin on yours and the cool leather seats of the blue Viper against the skin exposed on your lower back. And it's just his damn hand. Yet there's this aura of darkness, brooding that surrounds him and you can't desecrate it because it would feel like desecrating him.
It's that part of him that keeps him at a distance from you and frustrates you to no end because you can't crack him. But there is no other way. There is no other him. It's all a part of him. And you take what you can get. But you love it.
There is no right or wrong conclusion about Thomas Quincy, because you will never know which is right or which is wrong.
There's something primal, fierce, possessive and ethereal about him.
And it literally drives me to the brink of insanity because I can't undisguise him.
But it bothers me even more at how he can know me or how he can read me with just a glance.
He always knows.
You remember the first time you did it. And he knew. Without words.
No not that "it," but it.
A lovely family portrait we all made.
Mommy and Daddy dearest were playing the epitome of perfect parents so well. They deserved that damn American Academy Award.
Broken glass, broken words, broken vows, broken home.
Drift away to another place, another kind of life.
This time it wasn't about your dad's drinking and infidelity. It wasn't about your mother's ability to spend all of your families money and spend the night with a random stranger she would bring home on the nights your dad was "on a business trip." At least Daddy had the decency to not bring his call girls home. Point 1 for him. Mommy 0.
Well until you found the little white baggie in your Dad's liquor cabinet when you were trying to be a rebel and broke into it. Guess it was 1 to 1 now.
Nope it was about you. And what a whore their precious 16 year old daughter had become since winning Instant Star.
"Just like your mother!" he had said.
Pretty little girls in grown up make up and stilettos on magazine covers.
What you wouldn't give to be six years old and be able to sit in the corner of your room as they fought. Small, fragile hands belonging to the pretty older blonde covered your eyes, as you wrapped your arms around your knees, rocking back and forth humming "Hush Little Baby," eyes shut tightly forgetting the saline tears that were still there. Drifting away, leaving them behind, just like your big sister had taught you.
This time there are no Snow Whites, paper punk dolls and saccharine lullabies. Just stark, harsh words.
You'd only done it once before, but you grabbed the bag you know it was hidden in, raced down the wooden stairs, and out the door. The engine revved and you flew towards a lesser version of hell.
You didn't want to cry, adamantly refused, praying to God you wouldn't feel anything.
But you stopped believing in him a long time ago, did you?
Judas.
It was all kind of a blur between parking and ending in the locked golden, overly gaudy bathroom with white, pearly marble and gold plated sinks. Darius should be shot.
I locked myself in Darius's private bathroom at G-Major. A shudder coursed through me and wondered why I had chose it. Then I remembered it would be the last place anyone would look for me.
I don't remember actually feeling it or doing it. I only remember letting go, and I was 6 years old again, locked safely in my room with my big sister and her Cinderella eyes and hair assuring me that we would be okay, even if it was only someday.
Not today, but someday.
No evidence of a self-desecration had been left behind. I had made sure of that. A black DC hoodie embraced my arms and stopped just below the waste of my school girl skirt, ornately and beautifully decorated with safety pins and chains.
I don't know how he knew but he did.
I hadn't even seen him coming.
I was heading into hospitality to sit, eat some Strawberry pop tarts, and write my sorrows away in brooding, emo girl songs.
God, what a damned cliché I've become. Shame, shame, Jude.
Next thing I know I had been slammed into the back of the door to Studio C, his hand locking the doorknob behind me. He was tense and seemingly angry, but he was always intense and unpredictable.
What the fuck had I done this time? I thought he was over the whole me telling him his Viper had been keyed and vandalized only to find "April Fool's" written in shoe polish.
He stared at me and I tried not to wince at his scrutiny. I could feel his eyes traveling on my body, like he was searching for something. My breathing started to become more ragged cause every time I looked at him, I wanted him too just plain out fuck me.
Good, little virginal Jude be damned.
And to be severely twisted, his anger turned me on even more.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I need some Seroquel and Lithium.
But I was getting severely annoyed with his silence.
Speak or act. It was that simple.
"Geez, Quincy. Kinda rough there don't you think? Besides you might want to be careful. As quick and hard as you grabbed me, threw me in here, slammed the door and locked it, one might think you're hurrying to hike up my skirt, drop my boy shorts, and screw me against the sound board," I warned playfully. I waited for some sort of reaction but got none. He remained composed and just continued looking at for …for whatever the hell he was looking at me for.
Something was different though. He started too look pained, but he remained stoic and cold. I can't explain it, and for the first time I was scared.
A force came at me and his body pinned me against the back of the door, and for some reason I had ended up on my tippy toes, cause my pelvic area to roughly meet his and I gasped. I swear I heard him growl, and something stirred inside me, in my stomach, spreading to my core.
We were in a very compromising position, his eyes locked mine and our noses almost touched. It was the prettiest blue I'd ever seen and I felt dizzy and lost. Lost inside of him. My heart was racing so hard I could feel my blood pulsing through me, every last drop and cell surging though me. Hypnotized is what I was, and he knew it cause I could almost feel his lips smirk wickedly against mine. I braced myself because I was sure he was going to devour my mouth with his.
But he's Tom Quincy.
An unwillingly whimper escaped from my lips as he tightly gripped my hooded, sore wrists with his strong, calloused hands and he squeezed lnot so lightly.
Fuck. It hurt worse than the razor did, burning as the cotton lint of the inside of the hoodie grinded against my almost closed wounds, stinging and opening them.
"I can't stop or give it up. I need to feel the pain."
His eyes met mine and I could feel him thinking of a million questions, insults, and holding contempt for me in his eyes. I felt shamed and naked in front of him.
I had been so far gone and wallowing in my self-pity that I hadn't even fully comprehended what I had done to myself.
I hadn't cared or thought about it at the time. Just acted and did what felt right. I had felt nothing as the metal had penetrated my skin, because I was nothing and wanted to feel nothing. I made it feel like nothing.
Torn, and tattered, shards of my flesh. And it burned. I knew I was bleeding, even if only a little bit. It'd be a lie to say it was an unwelcome sensation.
I felt the tears in the back of my eyes. Tommy had distanced himself from me. I would have lost it if he had let go, but he still held my wrists. His grip had loosened a little, and I expected to him to turn away in disgust, but he managed to slide the cuffs of my hoodie up with just his fingers, and his fingertips grazed my bare flesh sending an electrical shock through me.
He looked at me with emotionless eyes, leaving once again left behind. Low, dark, and hollow.
God, I hated him.
I felt my arm slowly being raised and he brought my wrist to his lips, and I felt his lips graze the open flesh, his tongue skimming over the wound.
My eyes widened and fixated on him. This was not what I had been expecting. I couldn't think straight let alone speak. All I could do was moan at the feel of his lips and tongue on my skin, cleaning the wound.
My blood was on his lips and tongue. It should have disturbed me, but it was one of the most erotic sights I had ever seen. His beautiful, haunting eyes had this far away, glazed over look.
He broke the contact when I moaned once more. His head snapped up and he dropped my wrist, but his other hand still wrapped around my other wrist.
I swear I saw a look of guilt upon his face and hidden in his eyes. For what, I wasn't sure. I wanted to be inside his head, thinking his every thought.
"Tommy…" I whispered and he went from quiet and demure to angry, hardened, and bitter again.
Maybe he's the one that needs the meds, not me.
"Did you enjoy that, Jude? Did you enjoy feeling the razor cut your skin, the blood flowing freely through the wound?" he whispered harshly, degradingly in my ear, his hand once more squeezing my wrist, and this time I did cry. I just didn't fucking care anymore. I couldn't care anymore.
"Did you enjoy hurting yourself? Are you a masochist, Jude?" he finished mockingly.
"Fuck you, Quincy," I spat out through my tears.
He brought my arms up, his fingers entangled around my wrists between us, face to face again. For the first time in my life, I feared him. Not because he could emotionally damage me even further than he already has, but because I felt like for the first time I didn't really know him at all.
My head pounded with unanswered questions. I wanted them to stop so badly but they just wouldn't go away. Little birds humming in my head. Why did he toy with me? Did he mean to do it to me? Where did he go at night? What was really going on in his head when he laid his head to sleep at night? Did I mean anything to him? Why couldn't he let me in? Why couldn't I figure him out?
"How did you know?" I asked boldly and out of thin air. There was no way he could have seen me and I had never done it before. So there were no old pale, jagged scars. No healing wounds only to be left by a pale barely visible scar. No longed sleeved shirts everyday.
"Don't ever fucking do it again!" he growled, and he released me as if my touch had burned him, moving me out his way. He was gone just as fast as he had shoved me into the room, slamming the door behind him.
I shivered from the sudden lack of body heat, and pulled my cuffs down over my wrists and my hands curled into fists and gripped the edge of the cuffs in my fists. I threw my head back against the door and sank down to the floor.
I knew that I wouldn't ever do it again.
…Down poison…
End Chapter I
Thoughts anyone? Please let me know what you think.