Author: grayglube

Title: Magic Words

Summary: She tells him he's dead but he never bothers to remember.

Rating: M

Warning(s)/Kinks: Language, sexual situations

Spoilers: Everything in all episodes if you haven't been up to date with your viewing.

Disclaimer: I don't own American Horror Story. Or Byron's "Darkness".

A/N: Last part. It was my favorite to write, and it felt like I was writing a mystery story. Does it feel that way to anyone reading? Hmmmm. I think after this last bit some things in the past three will have a different slant to them.


"Want some?" She asks while circling the throat of the bottle with one hand and rolling it's base in a circle on the floor boards, he waits for it to tip over, it doesn't but the idea makes him smile, imagining the way she'd scurry to clean up the spill and curse her loose grip and lax concentration. But it doesn't.

"Pyromania?" He nods at the fireplace and how close she sits to the screen keeping popped embers from burning out her eyeballs, her face gleams with the sheen of heat on her temples and mouth.

"Cold."

Her voice sounds wrong, like wind in trees, ripples in water and he wonders moments later if she's spoken at all or if he's just imagined her response, wonders if he's ever made a comment or if he's imagined that too.

"It's really hot in here, Violet."

The room is sweltering and it's a humid night outside.

"…"

There's something in her stare as she turns her head incrementally to acknowledge him, and he feels a distinct sense of unease, primordial fear, he has no idea what brings it but it's only made deeper when he looks away for a moment and by the time his eyes return to find hers she's sitting exactly the same way as he's seen from the doorway before he'd spoken.

He doesn't know why but there's something eerily wrong with it.

"You're not drunk are you?"

"Tired…," she shrugs, thinking before speaking again, "not really." She lapses into silence before starting as if there's something in the fire she's trying to track with her eyes. "Buzzed, maybe, a little. Sick, can't breathe right." And she looks back with her eerie eyes and fireside face, "Bored, horny. Really horny."

"What?"

Her head tilts to the barest of angles and he sees that she's smiling, small and crooked, an expression like jagged ice.

"Yeah. Definitely. Super horny."

And he knows why her stare seems wrong, it reminds him of the doll heads in her room trapped inside their fishbowl, bald and bobbing up like koi to the very brim of it, vague and unspecific, not really looking at him at all. He's surprised when she gets up from the floor and moves to the couch and lies down on her stomach.

"What are you doing?"

But he knows what she's doing.

"Like you haven't watched me before."

There's no accusation in her tone, there's nothing in it and he can't do a thing besides stand and stare and watch her hands slip under her hips and inside her pants to rest between the couch and her thighs and then her hips roll forward and back and her eyes open again to give him that stare.

"…"

It's like watching someone smother their baby. He only half believes what he's seeing is happening but wanting to keep watching instead of stopping it and he realizes he's been holding his breath the same way she is.

"Violet, stop it."

She ignores him until he takes a step and almost knocks over the bottle of red wine that's been in the fridge since her mother stopped drinking it with dinner.

"Go away."

Her eyes close and she pummels herself against her hands, her fingers and turns her face into the couch to exhale.

"Violet."

He's ripping an arm out from under her and she's swinging up, pissed off, violent, ready to smack him.

"What's your problem?"

"…"

He doesn't know.

"Let go of my hands."

"Are you going to go upstairs and go to bed?"

He doesn't know where the words come from but he knows they're the right ones.

"No."

"…"

He doesn't know what to say to her refusal.

"Get out."

"What?"

He blinks rapidly at her face, waiting for her to smile like she's joking. She doesn't. She isn't.

"Get. Out."

"Why?"

"So I can get off."

He's let go of her hands and moved back to study her, legs curled under her on the couch, dirty hair, ash smudged face, reeking of cigarettes and wine stained pajamas she's already worn for days.

"Fine, do it."

It's meant to be a challenge he know she won't take, but she somehow always surprises him, all the time, every time and her anger is gone and she's back how she was, rubbing at herself through her panties, gasping, choking out breathes, he sits down and tries to find the moments he knows lead up to her coming, he wants to know what her face looks like when she does, because he has watched her but at night her room is dark and he can't ever catch her face, can't see how she moves under the swell of her covers, can't relish how soft her face gets when she turns her cheek into the pillow and closes her eyes, lips parted and moving but without breath puffing out, the way her forehead furrows, how when she needs to inhale she does it through her nose or how she breathes out but throws her whole face in the softness of her pillow, the way she pauses to let her body build up to what she wants, the way her eyes open into tiny slivers of a stare to look at him.

Her groan is pushed into the pillow on the couch and her mouth works at it, she circles her hips slowly, trying to get every last spasm she can out of it. She breathes heavy and loud, her face is flushed and her eyes are closed again before she's turning her face back to the pillow and moving again and he doesn't quite understand she's doing it all again until she's staring at him again.

There's a broken mewl at the end of her exhale when she's cum again, he realizes he's hard when the throb goes through his groin at hearing it.

"Second one's always better," she tells him, sitting up fast and swaying with a head rush while wiping hair from her sweaty face.

"I can tell."

His throat is tight.

"My dream was about you."

"Dreams about me make you want to make fires?"

"No, they just start them."

"Oh."

"Take of your shirt."

"No, Violet."

He shakes his head because he's not going to make things more awkward for the morning than they already are.

"I'm not going to do anything."

But she's already off the couch and crouching in front of him and he can smell her, wet and needy. She's already sitting heavily on his lap, bringing him all the way down to the floor under her weight, her hair streaming behind and above her with the motion.

"Stop."

It sounds weak even to him because he's trying to be good, trying to be anything but a boy with a boner, but he is and it's hard in more way than one to really say no convincingly or stop her from yanking his shirt off and pulling hers off too and sitting back with her breasts pert and pink and damp to make him really look at her.

"No. I wanna feel how hot you are."

He wanted to throw her off him but she was suddenly much heavier than he'd allowed himself to notice, like she had iron bones or like his will was made of straw and flammable things and she was all sparks and gasoline.

"You're all sweaty," he tells her when she's pressed her chest to his and her mouth is sucking on his jaw.

"You were all sweaty in my dream."

She puts a kiss to his skin.

"From what?"

"Hell."

He starts and looks at her, meets her doll stare, her hands smooth down his stomach and he just barely has enough in him to grab her wrists and hold them between their chests and make his stare another glare.

"You said you weren't going to do anything."

"Guess that makes me a liar."

The words come out like a vicious joke and her eyes go comically crazed and it's creepier than the blankness.

"Violet."

"Like you."

She all but spits it out at him, sour and cruel.

"I haven't lied to you."

"To yourself."

"About what?"

"Me."

Her lips pucker and grow a salacious smile.

"…"

"Purr."

It comes out mocking and it brings back memories of fantasies she's heard recorded and then replayed over and over just to be able to taunt him, tease him.

"Violet, get off."

"No, you're warm."

"I'm serious."

"Don't you wanna know how easy I am to get wet?"

He wonders what it is she's really trying to do, the thought steadies him, makes the throb in his cock less sweet and more disturbing than anything.

"I already do."

"No you don't."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"First time sucked."

His face must do something hilarious because she's got a cat grin stretching her mouth and cheeks and his pride is sore and bruised and she's hit a nerve and knows it, likes it, wants to do it again.

"…"

He's embarrassed and can't look at her.

But her grin dies and her mouth slackens in a tiny oval before she arches into him with her wrists still being bruised by the circle of his fingers around them, between their bodies.

"I was so nervous."

"…"

She kisses his cheek and his head swims a little at the sweetness of it.

"It's hard to stay turned on when your brain won't shut the fuck up."

"What's your point?"

"There's turned on wet and then there's absolutely fucking soaking."

He stands and leaves her sitting, half-naked, turned-on, amused, and cruel like a child is cruel. He sits in a chair and stares at the wall because he knows he can't leave, just like he knows he can't lay her down and peel off the rest of her clothes and do things she'd hate him for after she's not creepy and delirious and buzzed.

She shrugs into her pajama top, leaves it unbuttoned and slides on her knees to the fireplace again, watching and staring like nothing's happened.


The winds were withered in the stagnant air, and the clouds perished;


"Leave it alone."

She doesn't look up from the scorched skin, the bubble forming on the top of her foot, the seared pain like sandpaper across raw nerve from her jolting limbs twitching too close to the hot grate of the fireplace.

"You have to pop blisters for them to scab. And tear off the skin." She splits the skin and tears it off, plasma leaks out and it stings. She runs her finger down over the spot and hisses, she sucks her teeth and looks up at him. Sitting, staring at the wall, still.

Ignoring her, watching her covertly. Trying to pretend he isn't.

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Staring at me like that."

"Staring at you like what?"

"Like I'm about to be cannibalized."

"Maybe I do want to cannibalize you."

"Maybe I don't want to be cannibalized."

He does, she knows.

"No?"

She tries to make her tone sweet enough to have him look at her, he doesn't and quite suddenly everything about them right then is a game made up of getting him to look at her. She doesn't quite crawl but it's close and she comes up fast between his knees before he can shift in the chair, before he can do anything because he's made a point not to look at her or what she's doing.

He stares at his hand on the leather arm of the chair when he speaks. She traces his knuckles and fingers with her fingertips and puts her other hand on his knee before curving up to press her cheek into his chest, inhale his scent off his shirt and preen against him with a hum.

"I'm not in the mood for this Violet."

But he is, she knows and he knows and they both fucking know and for him the realization brings nothing but a festering wash of shame and for her the delicious thrill of making him so conflicted over the threat and tease of her fingers circling low on his stomach, under his shirt, through the thin trail of hair that leads into his pants, that as much as he loves it he loathes it because he's weak enough to crave it but not strong enough to take it.

"What is this?"

She stands and teeters in the open space between his legs on the seat of the chair with her knees pressed between his thighs and her hands slamming into leather on either side of his head, it's cute how hard his chin drops and his eyes follow because her pajamas are gaping and her small chest is right there, and it's funny when he shakes his head and gets angry.

"I'm not playing this game with you. Not now."

And she's back on the floor, he's pushed her quite literally away and she has no urge to do anything but smile because it's all more than slightly hilarious. That he wants to keep her from all the things that make him bad and that he's finding it hard to believe she's found them out all on her own.

That she likes the taste of it, knows the voracious gnaw of it in her gut like he does. Those dark inky things, like tendrils or tar in her lungs and she's always close enough to touch them because she's almost always close enough to touch him and it sticks to her skin, on her fingertips or lips or eyes because she sees it and feels it and touches it as surely as she does him, because it's all from him.

He's a black hole in rewind time, a supernova, some cosmic occurrence leaking out gamma radiation to speed up her elemental isotope decay on a moral level.

And she doesn't mind, because she's paid enough attention in chemistry to know that everything has a half-life and even when something is too miniscule to see it's still there, nothing ever really dies, it just changes. She is. She doesn't mind it, blips on a timeline he's told her once and she knows like he knows nothing lasts but everything stays because it's happened and even when it's too far away or too small to see it's still there. There's bad in him like there's good in her and they're just trading pieces and parts and changing, always changing.

"When?"

She pokes him in the thigh with her toes and he grabs her foot already knowing where it might go next.

"When you aren't acting like this."

"How am I acting?" She cocks her head to the side and stares at him wide eyed and brimming with false childlike naivety that she doubts either of them have ever really felt in their entire lives but are both so good at playing pretend as.

"…"

He throws her leg off him and turns his head.

She falls asleep with her head on his knee and her fingers tearing apart the ragged hem of his pant leg, his fingers are in her hair, rubbing, gentle, nice. It's enough.


Darkness had no need of aid from them—


She's wearing a pair of jeans and it hits him that he's never seen her in jeans before, it makes her look like someone else and her hair always so meticulously parted straight down the middle is slicked back and it makes her seem like someone else too.

Her nails are painted red and she not wearing a bra under the white t-shirt hanging off and on the denim waistline of her jeans, again, someone else.

The only thing familiar is the ever present cigarette hanging off her lip and even that looks off because her teeth aren't buried tight in the filter.

"You look like female James Dean."

It's kind of hot, admittedly, but by no means expected.

She's been playing with the fireplace again, he can smell the burning wood on her and see the black smudges of newspaper ink on her cheeks and nose and chin where her fingers have rubbed it into the skin. There's a tear in her lip, a red break her teeth try to pick open again.

He walks over to her dresser and lets his eyes search for a cheap dollar priced cherry chapstick he knows she keeps on it. When he finds it he pops off the cap with his thumb and strides over to grab her chin and pull her face up to roll it over her mouth an add the weak red flavored shine to them.

After he pulls back she wipes it off with her hand, a weak pinkish smear across her palm.

She leans back against the metal of her bed, her body straight and her head turned, every line tight and perfect as if she's presenting herself off as an object to impact the situation they are involved in that much deeper into his memory.

"Why'd you leave?" She speaks to the wall and the window but rolls her eyes back to watch the way his mouth moves when he answers the question.

"So you wouldn't do something stupid."

"Is it stupid if I still want to do it?"

Her fingers run over the metal stud of a button holding her jeans closed and her thumb pushes it through the split it's settled in.

"It was stupid before."

"But not now?"

"No."

It's the best idea ever, now. He wonders why it was bad before.

"Good."

She leans in and smashes her lips over his and he breaths her exhale, tastes chapstick wax and cigarettes. It lasts for a moment before he shakes his head away and looks down at her.

"How do you feel?"

"I can breathe enough to smoke and taste it."

"That's good."

"I'm cold. Wanna stay?"

"Yeah," he breathes.

"All night," she speaks against his lips.

"Yeah."

"I'm not tired."

"No?"

"No."

He kisses her and her mouth is plaint and warm and sweet to have on his again. He kisses her jaw and she sucks in a shaky breath.

"You never told me about your dream."

"It was like you took a bath in sweat and it was getting all over me, but it was good. So fucking good."

"What were we doing?"

"Fucking."

"I remember what you've told me."

"What have I told you?" It comes out ragged and distracted and he smiles leaning back to look at her.

"I'm dead."

"…"

There's nothing except a nod of quiet acceptance.

"I've liked doing bad things, I remember I did. But I've done things that are bad in different ways too to try to fix shit that doesn't matter that parts of me can't let go of."

"What parts?"

"Parts that don't like being dead."

"…"

"Parts that you don't like. Parts that don't get that being dead already fixed everything."

"You lied when you told me you were really here, you weren't. You lied to me."

"I thought that you liked those parts better, I thought those were what you wanted," he shrugs; he has nothing else to respond with.

"They're not," her tone is firm and demanding like the press of her hips against his and her hand on his arm.

His fingers unzip her jeans slowly, parting the metal teeth like he's pulling loose an old scab.

"Is this how you want me to be?"

"Yes. Okay? Yes."

She thrusts forward her hips and nudges his hand, reminds him where it is, he slips his fingers in and shoves his hand down between her legs and learns the difference between wet and soaking, it's clear enough by how his knuckles are sliding against the inside of her jeans, the inseam just as slick as the outside of her underwear.

And if he couldn't feel the wet cotton in the warm cradle of his palm he'd swear she wasn't wearing any. He meets her eyes and she's wearing a secret smile that all but tells him she's been thinking about things that get her wet for awhile now.

He wants to know all of those things. Wants to crawl inside her head and live there if her brain gets her more hot and bothered than he does.

"I'm one of those irredeemable people, you know that?"

Her face is level with his, a rare thing given their heights and he can feel the press of her chest against his with every measured breath she takes, the type of breathing dying things do so they will remember what it was like when they're dead.

"Do you want to be someone else?"

"No."

The secret smile turns into another that's just for him, it's a manic little thing with a savage curve and malicious lilt. It looks good on her.

"I love you."

After he says it, he's surprised it's just spilled out, tumbled, rolled off his tongue; it makes his heart jump like a suicide off a bridge.

"Do you need love or do you just want it, Tate?"

"I want it. From you."

"Take it."

Her pupils are blown, black eating away all the brown and she rises on her toes, grabbing the rail of her bed with one hand and his shoulder with the other to force her hot little cunt onto his hand, one foot raises to catch the heel of her boot on the metal base of her bed-frame and the hand on his shoulder grabs the back of his neck, sharp red nails cutting crescents into his skin.

"I want to fuck you like I did in your stupid dream."

"I was fucking you."

"Do it."

She considers him and her mouth twists into a pouty semblance of thought before she pushes him to take a step back and topples herself back over the metal rail of her bed and bounces on the mattress, waving her legs at him, her boots banging against each other.

"Why'd you decide to play dress-up?"

He pushes up the leg of her jeans to get to the laces of her boot. He yanks at the knotted bow and pulls hard as she pulls out her foot.

"I'm a rebel without a cause, different sort of teen angst, you know?"

"Yeah, sure. Of course."

Her other boot thumps to the floor loudly and he crawls over her shins and knees and she scoots back on the bed and turns her head to the side so he can go back to sucking on her pulse.

"You tried, I know. It's okay," she gasps when he sucks and laves at the red circle he's made on her thin skin.

"Hmmm?"

She goes rigid and pushes him up, holds his face in his hands and studies his stare and he's confused by it all.

"Holy shit."

"What?"

"You are so dumb."

She pushes him and sits up before reaching for her bedside table.

"Violet."

"Oh shut up."

There's a razorblade between her fingers and she holds him back with knees and elbows and feet while she cuts into the soft hollow of her inner elbow, there's an artery there, it's whole until she bisects it like it's nothing more than a casual activity instead of a fatal one. There's blood, hot, red, spilling down her arm and over his hand.

"Violet!"

He's got her elbow and arm in his hands and folds it tight before raising her arm above her head and reaches to make a tourniquet of her pillowcase when she chokes out a laugh, there's blood staining the white cotton stretched over her shoulders and chest and sprayed, misted, over the side of her face.

"Relax, I thought you liked dead things."

She tugs her arm back and unfolds it and there's just wet sticky blood, no cut, no parted flesh, no spraying artery. He rubs his fingers over the inside of her arm and through the blood that clings like a fake tattoo, tacky and turning brown and flaking off as he rubs.

"Tate."

"…," he looks up at her.

"Oh come on, like you didn't know."

"I didn't."

She looks down at her lap, "…now you do."

He shifts back and she barely acknowledges his movements on the bed next to her. "What now?"

Her arm shoots out and her eyes are wild and bright, "Lick it."

"What?"

"I lied when I said it was gross."

"Violet," he soothes, ignoring her arm. She scowls at him and punches the bed lurches up towards his face.

"Stop it. I hate when you do that, it's fucking useless. You're dead, I'm dead, we're even, stop thinking about everything, I don't want to think about what will happen when we forget; I don't want to think about anything. Okay?"

She rocks towards him, hands cinched in his shirt, desperate for him not to be freaked out or scared or anything other than normal over the fact that she's just as dead as him.

"Okay."

He raises the hem of her shirt and she raises her arms.

"I think I watched you get rid of my body."

She tugs at his; he yanks it off and covers her body while kicking off his shoes rolling down his socks with his toes.

"Did I?"

She kisses him before pushing at her jeans; he tugs them down her skinny legs.

"Yeah, and you left me flowers."

He pushes her fingers away from his pants and undoes them himself.

"How cliché."

She rolls her pelvis into his, he rolls back and she all but whimpers.

"You probably thought it was fucking romantic. They were pretty much dead too."

They start speaking only between kisses, and breathing, and the wild surges of their bodies onto each other.

"Guess I'm sentimental or something, huh?"

"Totally."

"I remember."

"I've been writing shit down so I don't forget."

"That's good."

"When they sell the house I'm going to have to make it look like I ran away."

"I'll help."

He pulls her arm from around his neck and licks at the sleeve of blood left on her skin.

"I know."

He sucks the splatter from her check and the corner of her mouth.

"It was because of the pills I got so sick."

"You mean the other day?"

"Overdose causes delirium, drowsiness, screws up your brain so it can't regulate your body temperature. Wasn't as bad as it could be I guess."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Died before it ruined my kidneys. That's good. Sometimes it doesn't and you suffer for hours."

"Violet let's stop talking about this, okay?"

"I want to forget for awhile."

"Me too."

And her comforter is clean, fluffed instead of drip damp, purple instead of black, her arm is smooth save for the silver lines of little scars, there's no tang of iron on his teeth, no wet redness on his tongue, there are no browning, killed by morning frost flowers on her dresser, there's no memory of dirt underneath his nails.

There's only her little book of secrets tucked away in her nightstand drawer to remind them of who they are and a house that likes to help despite how much it's going to hurt them because of it.

There's only how slick the outside of her panties are against his prodding fingertips, how needy her tiny hand is against the bulge of his cock under his boxers, how high the heat is cranked up in her room, how precise the prickle of sweat breaking out on their skin feels.

Violet remembers her dream.

Tate remembers asking about it.

She remembers thinking about it all day off and on, adding things in the gaps and spaces being awake took from her and the space existing between dream logic and the nature of reality when awake. Things she's only come up with while thrusting her cunt into the cradle of her hands and onto the soft, firm rises under her thumbs, mattress pressed under her knuckles and her mouth dragging across her pillowcase.

And suddenly she remembers he's already seen her doing that, getting off and she'd forgotten that she'd done it. A heavy throb goes through her sex, hot and insistent and a flare of blunt aching at just how she'd done it, in front of him, and he'd watched and she'd cum, and he did nothing but watch.

He pulls her up and lies back on her bed while her hands rip off the last of his clothing.

"No. Up." She pulls him up to sit and slides her hands under her to pull off her panties as far as she can and he rolls them the rest of the way to her ankles before tossing them somewhere off the side of the bed and she's situating herself on top of his folded legs.

The position requires more posturing than she'd thought it would and he notices the creases in her forehead denoting how hard she's trying to think.

"What's wrong?"

"Ankles."

She's wrapped an arm around him pulling him towards her as she reaches, lengthens to grab a pillow and place it under her bottom on top of his bony ankles and feet and sits, perched on top of feather down and his legs.

Her legs go around his body and she digs fingers into his arms before she takes a breath and raises up.

She's torn between staying hovered above, just barely about to sink down onto him and to actually do it, there's a dual edge to the prospect of it, of his dick, how she wants it, and she can't decide which edge she wants to cut her open or whether to do it all at once or inch by agonizing inch.

Her breath hitches and she's unraveling inside someplace in the space between her hips and navel, it's so much better than before or in a dream or how she's imagined when she's alone, the mess of sensation ballooning and spilling in and it's what hollow and whole feel at the same time and she wants to make a word for it but she can't because he's all velvet heat sinking in and she can feel the throb of his blood heavy and a gentle nudge with the slow wet drag of her body over and around him.

There's comfort, the kind only found in absolute exhaustion and the perfect spot to sleep, now. She's sated and sleepy and her insides clasp around him and it feels good enough to do again and again and again because any semblance of nonexistent space between them is still too much.

He groans low and guttural and it makes heat flare between her shoulder blades, insistent and deep straight from her bones, her spine and she can't help but keen back at him, into his skin and his sweat.

She's tethered with one heel pressed into the bottom of his spine and the other digging into the mattress, one arm binding his chest to hers with the press of it heavy across his shoulder the other draped lazy over the sharpness of her wrist, her hand cradling the weight of his skull, her bowed brow damp against his swollen mouth.

There's a sweet sore ache and burn in her thigh when she moves and her sigh is a hissed rasp, her hands barely keep their grip on his shoulders, sticky and hot, but she's raised up far enough to almost slip off of him all together and she circles the swell of him wet and slick from being in her and the tease of it makes her sex clench and arousal dampen and pink the tender inside of her thighs and she feels like a rabid animal, starving, and greedy already thinking of the next time he's going to be in her.

Her leg shakes and it hurts, cramps and she feels the murmur of his voice against her throat before or after or sometime between his tongue rolling up lick a stripe to the underside of her chin.

"Yeah, fuck me. Violet."

The slap their bones and skin and heat makes when she takes him all at once, flays herself open or liquefies their pelvises sends a spasm through her as much as the feel does. He arches up, jerks violently, unnaturally pulled or pushed or thrown up at her, into her. He's as much a mess as she is.

She feels sweat roll down from her brow and over her eyelid, it blinds her while she blinks it away and she barely wonders where all the oxygen in the room went, where all the heat came from, because it doesn't matter because his palm is cradling her ass and his fingers are melded into her thigh and all she wants to do is melt and moan.

It's different from before, the feel, the way her body moves, how he feels, it's good. Her legs are weak and refuse to lift her after another few strokes, she's almost come undone anyway and settles for rocking against him, grinding her clit into his pubic bone and she cries out on his shoulder with her teeth and tongue and wet suction of her mouth mimicking the way her insides shudder around the thick heat and hardness of him in her.

"Please."

Hers eyes drift up and catch his expression, his bottom lip red and stripped from his teeth, her mind is hazy and thick and her thoughts swim through the stew of the foggy feel.

"Come on, come on."

His fingers rub into her leg, tense, hard.

"Violet. Please."

She can't focus, and she runs her gaze down a track of sweat from his hairline to the middle of his cheek. He shifts, and squirms and has been glaring down at her for awhile before she notices, dumbly, unconcerned, dreamy.

"Move."

And she stares back for a moment before it connects in her brain that he's begging her to move, to keep going, that he's desperate to cum and she's been too secluded somewhere inside her own dazed state to really notice.

She lets go of his shoulders and falls back, his hand supporting her under her shoulders as if she's fallen but she thrust up weakly and his face changes and his hand yanks the pillow out from under her, his legs unfold and he rocks back on his heels pulling her closer, pushing in further.

There's a moment when he pulls his hips back and slips from her and she doesn't know whose voice is the one that lets out a thin whine, she thinks it's his but it might have been hers and he fumbles for a moment, and it's alright because when he's back inside he's snapping his hips and she groans, feet sliding on the bed, knees pointed, hands twisting in the sheets above her head, chest pressed up, spine bending and he looks down at her from under the fall of his sweat soaked hair and thrusts between every hard huff and puff.

He smirks when she says his name, at the way it sounds, at how she twists across the sheets.

"Gonna ruin you."

"Yeah. Yes."

There's a hard toss of his pelvis, over and over, and she thinks it might hurt if she wasn't so swollen inside, so keen on forgetting that there's anything but him left in the world.

She feels the throb of him, the twitch, the way there's a sudden burst of hot warmth and she smirks and he grins back, devilish and boy-like, maybe a little self-depreciating but it fits and she grinds out a groan when he pulls out and falls heavily at her side on his stomach, one eye peeking open to stare at her she catches his gaze and watches it move to where her hand slips between her thighs to slip through the wet slide of how messy sex is.

He rolls onto his back and watches rapt, breathing hard before she throws a leg over him and rubs against his hip until she's shaking in need and finally cums, again. They breathe and doze and their sweat cools. It's nice she decides. Her thoughts spin in lazy spirals.

The only way to get happy endings is to stop when there is one, to close the book, to leave the thing undone, to never ever indulge in the thrill of curiosity, satisfaction and happiness are two different creatures and they're far past the point of sweet cloying rose water and soul mate happiness. There is no place in the sun for them, no poetic breakdown of their existences side by side in bedrooms and basements and backyards and beaches, no absolute moment where they've stopped and neglected to go further just because they could.

They have.

Because they're both more than a little selfish, and they've got eternity to play with and curiosity to get rid of nine lives times ninety-nine and even if there was a Romeo and Juliet part deux it'd still turn out as a farce, because romance is always tragic nonexclusive to the parties involved.

There's simply nothing else to do, they've refused to throw the book away at the happy spot in the sun and walk on without knowing how things really turn out, filled with the idealistic ever after that's as elusive as it is nonspecific.

And she figures that no one really knows what ever after feels like because they've stopped or they didn't and they died which is still just stopping in a different sort of way but she's dead and things haven't stopped so she's stuck with ever after just like him and there's nothing else to do but wait and watch and amuse themselves.

She finds the prospect of nothing after the ever after apt, funny, tragic, but mostly boring and the house knows just like she does, just like he does and it will help in the way it always does, making them think that their broken pieces meld them together into the same thing, but they aren't and they know but the house can help that too.

They can get their shared nonspecific perfect happy sunny ever after if they forget they've already finished the book and all the parts past everything that make them remember things that go past happy and tragic and funny and boring and satisfied.

He falls asleep.

She pads across her bedroom and sweeps her arm down to pick his mustard yellow cardigan off the floor, it's too big and the buttons start at her navel but she wears in anyway knowing no one's around to catch her naked with her boyfriend's clothes on. She goes to her nightstand.

Her grip on the leather notebook is lax and as she goes downstairs, each step measured and purposeful. The library hides it's murals behind wallpaper but she knows what they look like, she's dreamed about them too, she dreams about a lot of things lately.

The fireplace is ignited and burning already and it's the house and no one living or dead that's made it.

All it takes is a flicked wrist and a sigh and it's done. The leather cover curls and the pages are eaten away into orange lace and it's done.

She burns the book of all their secrets so she can forget she's read them. So she can learn them again on her own, over and over.

It's melodrama at its best with all its stock characters and emotional overuse and grand themes that are only around to keep everyone arguing and fucking and falling in love.

Watching it burn with her hands fisted down deep in the pockets of the cardigan, making bulges in the fabric and stretching it tight across her shoulders, she thinks it's the perfect way to spend eternity, maybe the only way. Maybe they just have to go on like they're living, maybe there is no other option but oblivion and she's not so worn out and tired that she wants that.

Now that she's dead and going to forget it the over and overs aren't so dumb, they're appealing.

She wants a cigarette and takes one from the pack in the pocket her hand is fisted in knowing with absolute clarity that she'd left her cigarettes upstairs. She guesses things could be worse than being stuck in a house that likes to be helpful.

There are matches on top of the fire place she moves to, the heat hurting the half healed burn on the top of her foot that she also knows with absolute clarity wasn't there for awhile.

Warming her bare legs and leaning her arms on the mantel she smiles.

"Still cold?"

"No," she shakes her head, "not anymore."

He's put on his boxers and she finds him an adorable picture of post-coital sleepy boy bliss. She wants to tell him he looks cute but refrains because he'd laugh and tell her she's cute and she'd have to scowl and hit him because that's how things are supposed to be.

And for awhile she wants to remember how the story ends. She wants to pretend that they get a happy ending worth stopping at.

When he walks over he puts his forehead on the back of her neck and mumbles before picking his head up and putting his chin in the hollow between her neck and arm opening his mouth for a drag off her cigarette.

She's raising her hand while his fingers lift up the hem of his cardigan.

"You're not wearing any panties." He chastises all sing-song with his tone and she bumps her head into his.

"Come on I want to take a nap."

"Okay. You're gonna leave the fire going?"

"It'll go out by itself."


She was the Universe.


A/N: Holy Shit! I'm done! Jeez, finally. I always try to post before the new episode comes on, huzzah I did it. Now I need a nap before the show. The ending to this is kind of dependent on who's reading; it's as happy or sad as you think it is based on whether or not you think choosing to be oblivious and not knowing you're oblivious makes for a happy ending or a sad ending. It's ambiguous, choose your own flavor. There's enough throughout this whole long fic to sway it either way I think. There's even a theme, and motifs, oh my god look an English class call back! And if I start talking shop I'm never going to stop because talking about literary devices gives me consecutive nerdgasms.

To anyone thinking of writing fic in this fandom, do it. Write, post, seriously you have great ideas and I want to read them. Also starting December 10th myself and a few other writers, who are absolutely stellar in my opinion, will be joining together for a fic promotion sort of thing, AHS Gift Fic, every 20th new fic over 1,000 words gets gift fic, like the lottery, if you're the lucky author you'll get a PM from me letting you know you get to prompt one of us authors to write fic for YOU. Check out the forum for more details. Also we will be running a nominations event where everyone reading and writing in this fandom gets to nominate and vote on their favorite fics, authors, and reviewers. Winners get gift fic. So go forth and write great fic!

Recs: "Asphyxiate" by FloodedLungs, ignoring the grammatical errors it's a little gem of a fic. "I Need No Heaven" by BryndisBeeSting again, chapter two is up. Better than the first. The author is just starting out writing fanfiction, as I see on their profile, but really there is definite growth going on and it's noticeable from the first chapter to the second, and while there's some shaky bits it's an overall wonderful piece.