A/N- I do not own any of these characters, nor am I making money off this fic.
This piece is a belated birthday request for muse of suffering. Happy birthday. Hope you like it.
Oh, don't forget to take my new poll. Vote for a sexy random crack pairing to get an M-rated oneshot. Thanks!!
The room was blanketed in a darkness so thick, she felt like it was pressing over her flesh with a weight too heavy to be real. A clock was across the room, although the digits were distorted by several beer bottles. She opened her mouth to ask him to move them, to just clean up after himself, when she stopped. Her head looked momentarily to the bed next to her. She already knew it was empty before she looked. Whispering his name, then, she heaved herself out of the tangle of sheets and onto the icy tile floor of their apartment. She didn't know how the floor was so cold, as the rest of the place was steamy, even sticky hot. Still, she shuffled through the tossed away shirts and dirt caked boots to the ajar door. Paint and blood were smeared over the door handle, but she knew it was dry. She pushed the creaking thing open with a rough shove and stepped into the narrow hallway that somewhat twisted out into the living room. She continued to have to step over junk, from bags to books to a broken chair, until she was standing in the dim grey blue light of the disaster of a front room. The answering machine was blinking with some unheard message. She didn't go over and press play. She knew who it was and she didn't want to hear that scared voice asking for him. She ignored it as she stepped around the overturned coffee table from the argument the night before. The couch with it's mismatching fabric stared back at her as he took a long and steady drag on his cigarette. He knew she was there. He just wasn't prepared to acknowledge it. That was fine with her. She could wait.
A moment passed in which Tiffany did. She stood there in her black silk nightgown loosely billowing around her curvy hips, waiting. Her dark and brooding lover chewed on the edge of his smoke, his dark eyes refusing to look at her. The smoke tainted the air, made it a bit stiff to breathe. Had she not lived with him for so long, she probably would've complained or something of the like. As it was, though, she had been in that ratty little apartment for several months. She was used to a little smoke. Besides, she had recently picked up the habit from his discarded packs and lighters. She didn't need to complain. She didn't need to do anything. She just needed to wait until those cold eyes moved from the wall to her luscious frame.
In time, they did. Chucky moved his head a fraction of an inch, his semi curly locks falling into his face in slow motion. He rolled the smoke off his tongue when she smiled a brief, hesitating smile in his direction. His pale skin glistened in the stale light of the trashed place they called home. He wasn't wearing his shirt, as he never did when it was that hot. All he wore were his faded green boxers. The jeans he'd been wearing that day were slung over the coffee table. Tiffany saw them only then, when she realized he wasn't in them anymore. There was a second when she nearly barked at him to put them up. She stopped short, however, when he burned the smoke out on the wood of the table. Another deep, dark singe mark appeared when he flipped the burned out end to the floor. The last bit of white smoke hung in the air around her head as she moved closer. He stared at her feet, watching them as she sat down on the ratty couch beside him. Immediately, she wished she'd stayed standing, for the cushions felt like lumps against her naked bottom. Tiffany made a face then as she pulled her long legs up and tucked them underneath her. He sat as he was, one ankle resting on one knee and both arms crossed like protection. A still and nearly touchable silence settled in between them for several deafening minutes.
Finally, Tiffany said it, what she had wanted to say since she had woken up in that frightful heat of that summer night of that disgusting city. She told him that she had heard him screaming, again. The sentence was short, a mere five words, yet it was said with the utmost care. Her sultry voice faltered halfway through, before ending in a slow whisper of uncertainty. The words pierced the silence like a knife into the heart, painful and unexpected. When all was said, Tiffany wished she could take them back almost before she had time to register that she'd said them at all. Chucky, however, seemed to realize what she'd said before she ever got the first bit out. His eyes stared straight ahead while his back tightened and his knuckles went white as the fists formed. The fear that he was going to hit her was more then a secondary one, she was afraid to admit. She even uncurled her legs quickly to avoid the blow for daring to mention it.
The fist never came. Instead, Chucky closed his eyes and took in a deep breath that seemed more forced then anything calming. Tiffany didn't kid herself into believing he was doing this for her benefit. Looking to the dining room where one of the chairs was halfway through the wall, she knew better then that. This wasn't Chucky calming himself to avoid hurting her. She had a bruise on the outside of her leg, inside her arm, upper side of her back, just about anywhere and everywhere that said he couldn't care less about doing that. Never that. This was for his own benefit. She had never really seen him do something like that. Perhaps that's why she lowered her feet to the ground and drew her hands up to her chest. She knew that whatever was going on behind those eyes was something that was far worse then a chair through a wall and a well placed fist.
For all her drawing away, Tiffany felt her hand touch his shoulder long before she knew she was moving closer. Her black nails smoothed over his tense flesh to his soft hair. She curled a lock around her fingers before laying her head on his shoulder, facing his chest. Tiffany could see his heart racing, even if his breathing was perfectly even. Chucky didn't push her away nor did he say anything about the sudden contact. Her knees touched his as her feet slipped forward to rest on his. Slowly, biting her lower lip, she moved her free hand over and pressed her palm over his broken and bloodied knuckles. Tiffany wasn't sure where this hesitation was coming from. All she knew was that the air felt so heavy, so hard, so cold in it's hellish heat, that she could barely move her mouth to apologize for bringing it up. The words were thick, crushing almost, as they entered the tension floating in that ripped apart room. Chucky's head moved another fraction when he nodded. His eyes moved over to her own, looking through her without ever seeing her. A shiver slipped down her back in a splash of ice that jutted through her spine to her heart and stomach. Everything within froze then when he flipped open his lighter.
The flame bathed them in a warm glow that lasted all of two seconds before the thing was closed and the cold moved in upon them like animals on prey. Chucky didn't light anything. He just flipped the fire on and off, watching how it danced uncontrollably. Tiffany pursed her lips, vaguely wondering if the motion was endearing or threatening. Deciding it wasn't worth her face to find out, she reached out and closed her hand over the top of the lighter when it was closed. Chucky didn't fight her when she took it and tossed it onto the floor. The clink was louder then a gunshot. However, that seemed to break the ice that was drowning them in that awful fire.
" I had a nightmare. . . 'bout my stepfather. . "
Silence melted away then to a truth that seemed to physically manifest itself in the apartment surrounding them. Tiffany felt her heart stopping as her blood became swept away with the shards of ice dripping through her skin from his mouth. The tale was one she had wondered about for long evenings laying in bed, gasping for breath, someone else's blood coating her face and hands, while her greatest lover slept on top of her ample chest. She knew what drove her own compulsions wielding a knife. A father who stood at her bed frame, grinning, as she was forced to fondle herself while her drunken mother was sprawled out on the kitchen floor. Years of that abuse at lead her to the apartment of two bloodied serial killers by the names of Chucky Ray and Eddie Caputo. She had heard in whispers that Eddie's older brothers had molested him as his parents beat each other senseless before he had just run away as hard and fast as he could. Yet, the tale of her lover had always remained a mystery that seemed far greater then even his own depravity. Those simple words, words that were almost too ordinary for the beginning of the story, opened the bolted door Tiffany had been trying to peak into all along. The demons that crawled out and into their present world, though, were much more obscene then her imagination had constructed.
A man more monster then man rose up from the depths of Hell as a prologue. Douglas was his last name, and the only one given throughout the tale. A rogue pastor turned out by the church for molesting a choir singer. A lanky man built like a spider on legs too tall for someone of his height, with graying hair that had never been combed in his life. A beard of scruff that made his dark eyes seem to swim in his pale, broken face with a nose like a jagged board in the center. Rotten teeth stained yellow and brown from wear and tear throughout years of alcoholism. This was Douglas, the man who a thousand other names not befitting the ears of a lady like Tiffany. She heard them anyways as he was brought to life for the first time in well over a decade. Douglas was not Chucky's father. He was the stepfather who replaced the one night stand who ran at the mention of fatherhood. Douglas was the man who stood in the corner of the room, reading from his broken spine, poorly bound Bible as the Jezebel of the past wound herself into reality.
A mother only because of poorly designed protection, Melissa Ray was anything but a mother. She never went by Mother, not once throughout the telling. She was only Mel, the deviant prostitute who took men to the alley behind the bar for anything resembling a good time. A short and skinny waif of a creature with eyes too large for her skull and lips that parted into a yellowed smile cracked for the missing teeth. Mounds of frizzy hair splayed around her head, like an unchecked bird's nest, framing her bony shoulders that dropped into a fragile, weather worn body no man could love. Years of puncture holes littered her hard form, a road map to love gone wrong repeatedly through bad judgment. She was the heckler in the crowd of femininity that never once took to her ugly aura, the mother Chucky never called mother, the woman Douglas married.
These were the monstrosities that made Chucky into who he was, those who lingered in the back of his mind like two cockroaches unable to be stomped out. Mel with her bedside raves, mind destroyed by heroin abuse, and Douglas with his Bible and the back of his hand. She was the befouled wretch who sat on the kitchen floor, legs open with nothing covering her bloodied privates, as she lit a cigarette with a match. He was the drunk who would grab her hair and slam her face into the ground before violating her for hours as she coughed up mouthful of vomit after mouthful of blood. A deluded couple whose only source of pleasure was found in a bottle somewhere in the apartment they rented off the money Mel made spreading her legs to men as bad as Douglas. The only thing that spared more children the sickening memory of watching their mother pull off her panties for strange men was the fact that Mel had jammed a wire hanger so far up herself, she could never bare children again. Unfortunately, her womb had already bled out one small boy whose nightmare began and ended in the same red substance.
Chucky never saw the inside of a classroom, hospital, or police station until he was fifteen. He was born in the bathtub of Mel's apartment. Chucky never knew if and when Mel and Douglas were ever married, but he never knew life without them. From the moment of his birth to the day those wooden boxes were lowered into the ground, he was surrounded by the two of them. Mel, for her own sake, named him after someone who had, at some point, meant something to her; who that was, Chuck never knew. Douglas, however, had no use for a name of any kind. Chucky was not his child and, as far as Douglas had been concerned, was a product of the Devil raping his disgusting wife. As much good as it might have done, the Bible gave Douglas all the ways he needed to release Chucky from his hellish conception.
Abuse was not the word for what took place in that household for fifteen years in a sea of black, red, and broken glass. With a Bible held above his head, Douglas would smash his knuckles into Chucky's body until blood splattered the walls and the child was screaming for help, for mercy, for anything. The Bible would connect with bone, white would rip through the skin, and the broken body part would be twisted until Chucky vomited for the sheer agony of it. Booze filled the air as the escalation began without ever starting. No ages were ever mentioned, but Tiffany followed the broken stories in cold horror without needing them. A couple bottles of scotch or rum and everything would start in a flurry of swears that meant everything to a child shaking in the corner of a foul one bedroom on the top floor. Douglas used anything he wanted. Fists, bottles, books, even a torn off table leg made of solid oak wood. He recited page after page from that beer stained Bible as he brought the weapon down into Chucky. For all his screaming, begging, Mel would sit there in the kitchen, sticking another needle into her bloodied flesh. When she collapsed to the floor, shaking, Douglas would grab Chucky by the ankles and drag him from the living room to the bedroom. Chucky dug his nails into the wooden floors, shrieking, for he never wanted to go, to see the inside of the room that smelled like urine and sick.
The bedroom wasn't introduced until Chucky was nine. Until then, Douglas was sedated when the child was a pool of blood and spit that quivered in silent, pulsing agony that no amount of tears could ever heal. After that, though, there was the bedroom. Not much bigger then an average bathroom, it had nothing in it but a broken bed frame and rotting dresser. There was no bed, for none in that household fell asleep on a bed. Down into the frame, though, Douglas would throw the body of his stepson. Chucky tried to escape more times then he could ever possibly remember. Nothing ever worked and no one ever came when he screamed. Douglas would throw the Bible to the floor as he undid his belt. Yelling and shouting prayers the were supposed to bring hope to the believers, he would bring his cracked leather belt against Chucky's flesh over and over and over until the skin was torn away, pieces of it stuck to the buckle as fat drops of blood splashed onto the deeply stained floor. In that pool of red, Chucky would black out in pain that numbed his entire body in throbbing jolts. Douglas left him to bled out to go rape his wife's lifeless body, needle still jutting from her withered arm.
Fifteen years dragged themselves out in that fashion. There was nothing different about the night everything stopped and time began. Hours dripped by in slow motion while the thumping continued, her moans falling into the air like pots and pans clattering to the ground. Night consumed the windowless hell, casting the young Chucky in a darkness he swore was alive. There was blood running down his neck from the blow to the head Douglas had swung into him that morning. His name, his first name, was screamed, Mel's voice shrill and slurred, and he had gotten to his feet. Outside the bathroom, Douglas was turning a page in his Bible and Mel was wiping blood from her mouth. She pointed to the kitchen, ordered him to clean it, the mess from their raping session. Chucky had spat at her just before the Bible connected with his face, the Commandments being shouted in a voice that was rum in verbal form. The book was pulled back, his hair was grabbed, and that was when everything slowed down so that every motion was as surreal as a vision of the future.
The bottle was an empty beer bottle that had fallen to the floor and shattered. The entire world had gone red, silent, and still when Chucky's body jerked to the side when that leather bound weapon smashed into his head. The split second of time it took to hit the floor was the last second of true sanity he ever felt he had. The next, his hand was around that bottle and it's green glass was through Douglas' stomach in a long gash that turned red before the swing was done. Red extended from the slice to the air before colliding with the wall. The slow motion stopped. After that, everything sped up a thousand times.
Mel was the first victim. As Douglas dropped heavily to his knees, the Bible falling to the floor in a hollow thud, Chucky rounded on the woman staring in delusional fear. White liquid dripped down her legs while she started to cry choked and wild sobs that felt like sandpaper. She never tried to run, to escape, because she never saw it coming. Years of laying down for men, and she wound up the same in death. Her son slammed the bottle into her shoulder and neck in the same motion. Red created a line from the jagged edge to her body as she slipped to the ground. Thick lines ran from the corners of her cracked mouth before her eyes faded out entirely. The blood began to pool as the bottle shattered onto the ground with a sound that couldn't be heard over the coughing of her husband. She wasn't even cold when Chucky grabbed Douglas' head where he knelt on the floor, watching as Mel died in a bout of convulsions.
Douglas was thrown to the ground as Chucky grabbed his ankles. Laughter, hysterical and manic, poured into the frighteningly chilled air while the beaten child dragged that drunken man to the bedroom without a bed. Douglas' head rolled on his shoulders before he was thrown to the floor in that frame. Hands shaking, Chucky jerked that leather belt from his waist. In the telling, Chucky didn't say why, for there was probably no meaning, but he didn't beat that spider to death. He wrapped that three inch thick strap about his neck and squeezed the thing as tight as he possibly could. Douglas bucked, his hands dragging along Chucky's arms until blood dripped into those huge eyes, blinding him. Laughter continued to break the groans apart. The fighting grew dimmer and lighter, then as the strap cut into the skin. That head slammed from side to side, cheeks smashing into the floor with loud, wet thuds. The feet smashed into the floor, heels connecting with the blood stained wood and doing nothing. For all his attempts, Douglas could not escape. He tried as bloodied spit ran over his face to his bread, as his body went limb without his control, as his stepson murdered him.
When Douglas died, the story came to a halting close. Chucky didn't say anything else, his eyes staring blankly at the overturned coffee table as though he could see his stepfather there. Tiffany sat next to him, her hands suddenly in her lap since the beginning of the story. The air around her was pulsing with sticky humidity that made sweat run down her back. She, however, had never felt so cold. Drowning in a pool of ice would not feel as cold as Tiffany at the moment the words stopped and the two monsters fell away from present day. A shiver darted down her spine, made her toes curl, as she licked her lips in an attempt to say something. There were no words. Horror stole her voice from even uttering a sob for her lover. Thus, she sat like stone beside him. He muttered something about never having told anyone that, but his words sounded far off. A few moments passed before Tiffany realized that Chucky had said that a couple minutes ago, before the silence that had settled in. Her head moved in a quick shake, trying to rid her body of the spell that had stopped all motion. When she tried to say something, however, she heard his voice and stopped. Chucky turned his eyes to the ground where their feet were nearly touching.
" If I had to tell someone . . . I'm glad it was you, Tiff. . ."
The words danced over Tiffany's skin as Chucky rested his head on her shoulder. She didn't need to ask why he was shaking, why his eyes were squeezed shut. The world of dreams had a unique method of resurrecting memories and casting them in a bitterly familiar light. With the chilling ability to turn the dead into the living, nightmares could terrorize any with the past to construct them. She knew that she would never know what that nightmare had been. To ask was cruel and unusual, for it was much more then she truly needed to know. She had the horror show playing slowly and cruelly in her mind. She could only imagine what the biting and bloody memories felt like in the mind of the child who had actually lived through that version of holy hell. So, she didn't ask. Tiffany merely gave her body to that man who had walked out of those ashes. From experience, she knew what those monsters had created in those fifteen years. The bruises, the broken furniture, the screaming, the murders that filled up that tainted apartment were proof enough of the lasting effects Douglas and Mel had on Chucky. Perhaps that's why when she felt his tender lips against her collar bone, she allowed it.
There were no words to comfort someone whose mind was torn apart by torture that severe. Tiffany could say a million things that might offer some sort of therapeutic effect, but that was not what Chucky wanted. More then likely, it was something he needed, especially in the long run. However, as he ran his hot, wet tongue up her throat, she knew what he wanted. Anger fed his passions, lust his desires. The mark of a depraved individual capable of what he did to people. Tiffany didn't bother with sympathetic words that would only enrage him for bringing up the pain that those memories left him with. She just ran her nails over his bare shoulders to his face. She pulled his lips up to hers and pressed her open mouth over his, her eyes closing slowly. They eased backwards onto the uncomfortable cushions as his fingers moved over her bare thighs to her night dress. His touch was anything but kind, his kiss painful in more ways then one, but Tiffany refused to pull away. She gave him her body, gave it to him to exploit his own version of therapy.
The first moan dripped into the air when Chucky's hands moved over Tiffany's straining chest. Her breasts squished into his palms as he gripped her. A muffled, low moan trickled over his lips when he pulled back only a fraction of an inch. His dark eyes glinted in the dim light of the midnight hours, primal emotion coursing through them. He licked his lips, hungry for more. She gave it to him by jerking his burning mouth to her own, running her tongue over his own. She drank his essence down as he straddled her easily. The weight of him on her made a small animalistic sound break the sounds of their embrace. Her pelvis rocked against his, moving to the swaying of their deep and breathless kiss. Her nails cut into his cheeks, his hair cold and wet against her knuckles. His hands moved from her chest to the swell of her hips. They traced the lines of her black lace thong, moving under the straps to caress bare skin. She felt him growing hard through the fabric of his boxers. Moving her head back, she gasped out her only command for that evening in that heated apartment so far from the rest of the world.
" Take me, Chucky,"
There was no need for words after that moment. Every ounce of passion that Tiffany could give, she gave. Every shred of it was taken from her as those hands gripped her white flesh hard enough to bruise almost instantly. Her chest swelled and strained her shirt as breath became difficult to gather. His mouth breathed hot and heavy over her throat, grazing her flesh with a kiss at random. Her hands twisted up his hair when her thong was removed in the slow, steady sliding of his shaking hands on her thighs. The black thing was tossed onto his jeans on the coffee table before his green boxers were removed in quite the same way. She opened her mouth to whisper his name when he pushed himself deep into her wet and slick entrance.
Tiffany's scream was nothing but the most deafening vocal exclaim that any one lover could give to another. Her body jerked in motion with Chucky's first powerful thrust. Every muscle in her form jolted to life, from her arching back to her curled and clenched toes. Fingers dug into her hips, holding her to him as he pulled out, only to repeat the action. Her voice choked and sputtered as spit ran down her chin. Heat poured over her body, jumping from her blood to her skin in a flush that made her glow beneath him. Her vision danced in black and whites, but she could see that gorgeous face with his snakelike smile just above her chest. His tongue smoothed over her breast, tasting her in that seductive way he did. A pulse of unimaginable fire burst through her body as her back twisted itself painfully. She tried to say his name, tried to whisper something beautiful, but nothing could leave her lips but the choked and muffled cry of her more primal side. That sound made Chucky smile wider, his lips against her body as he pumped passionately, roughly, into her quivering form. Every thrust rocked her from head to toe, only growing harder and deeper.
One of his hands gripped her thigh then, hiking it up. Tiffany's mind went utterly black, white, a thousand colors in a whirlwind of screams she only vaguely recognized as her own, when her greatest lover struck her spot at the most perfect angle. Her eyes rolled back into her skull as a convulsion nearly broke her back in a frantic arch. A low rumble of Chucky's deepest laugh washed over her breasts from his panting mouth. The heat felt alive over her as every sense jolted to a new life within. Air refused to leave her lungs, but nothing could slip through her tight throat. Voice stolen, she could only jerk wildly as he thrust himself back against that tender spot. The explosion of sensations rendered her legs numb from her curled toes to her thighs where his fingers were cutting into the flesh. His breath fell over her in shallow gasps, his hands caressing her hips and thighs. Every breath was a name, her name, even if he could barely say it from the pressure that was building between them as he continued to thrust into her convulsing body.
Like a crack of lightning, Tiffany felt her entire body awaken in a jolt that was the best thing her senses had ever experienced. A scream from nowhere tore from her mouth, bouncing off the white walls of the abyss that became her vision. Her nails dragged down Chucky's shoulders, her back arched more then it should have. Spit ran down her chin, blood over her knuckles, before everything was gone in a void of black that swallowed her up. Moments later, she was laying on the couch, gasping and choking in the aftermath. She whispered in a low, detached voice that she loved him. Two hands moved from her bruised and aching hips to her breasts as her body rocked to the furious thrusting. Her vision swirled before she saw Chucky grinning down at her from behind his matted, curly hair. Dark shards of ice gazed right through her as those tender fingers wrapped around her neck. Tiffany let her own hands fall to the side without fighting this time.
His grip went from comforting to violent and vicious without stopping in between the two. Tiffany felt her airway shut down, her body bucking against his, as Chucky squeezed her neck as hard as he felt he truly could get away with. The room swam around her head. Her hands automatically jumped to his, her black and bloodied nails dragging along his flesh. Laughter bloomed over her skull while her lungs began to collapse within. Tiffany stared through a shrinking hole as her lover thrust himself into her convulsing and withering body harder and harder. Pain jumped from her pelvis to her lower back. Feeling leaked away as his grip tightened only that much more. Her head shook, spit and what felt like blood running from her gaping mouth to his shivering fingers. The look in his cold eyes was growing more malicious by the second. Fear rushed to the surface as Tiffany started to thrash and kick. He shoved himself into her then as her hands dropped away in slow motion. The image of Chucky laughing above her faded quickly as her vision dropped away from reality.
Air punctured her lungs not a minute later, sending life and feeling back through her damaged and throbbing body. Tiffany choked on the hard and thick gasps, her hands smoothing along the rough and bruised skin of her throat. The spotty appearance of the dim room danced in her line of sight a bit longer before finally melting into that humid prison of sorts. Around her were the remains of arguments gone wrong, fury from a past that would never truly disappear. Above her was that broken man, face flushed from passion and eyes aglow with that desire that fed him. He licked his lips hungrily when he saw her eyes watching him. Chucky gave her his signature half smile before he leaned over her, slowly, hesitating as if he expected her to start screaming and shoving him off. Tiffany did neither. She merely raised her trembling hands to his face. Her finger tips drew his lips to her own, where they both kissed the other for the pleasure of the evening and for more to come.
Pulling him to her, Tiffany gave Chucky the only comfort she knew how to give. She surrendered her body, mind, and soul to him for whatever method he sought to use it for. Her neck ached, strangled raw and red. Her body throbbed from her numb feet to her wet and pulsing center. Her body was his fortress, his escape from the memories that would haunt him for years. There would be fights when he would grab her hair and scream at her in swearwords that she need never hear. There would be murders that would terrify even her. There would be nights for the bottle, for the blade, for the rope, for the passion. Nothing would rid Chucky of that psychotic expression of power. Her moments with him would bring her the ultimate joy only if she allowed him to feed his sick and twisted fetishes. Tiffany knew that the day would come when he would need more then she could give. That would be the day he didn't let go when her vision faded. That would be the day he took a knife from the kitchen and slit her throat while she was sleeping. That would be the day he went too far and murdered her. That would be the day she gave him the greatest comfort someone like him could ever have.
For a chance to have Chucky smile like he did when he looked at her, Tiffany was willing to give him that comfort. There were no words that could soothe a true serial killer. She knew that from experience. She could only give him what he wanted to give him any form of comfort at all. Chucky wasn't a man to take things lightly, though. She knew he would never thank her, probably never return the favor, but she knew that he would give her one thing in return for her generous offer. When he finally killed her, he would do it quickly.
And that was the greatest comfort Tiffany could ask for.
Fin.