Warnings: Violence, self-mutilation, language, sexual situations, dub-con, voyeurism
Summary: "A question my Queen: I remember you as you were but do you remember your fickle one?" She's perfectly at ease with making him uneasy.
A/N: My prompter wanted a fic with a dominance/submission or bdsm kind of edge and kinks for Violet and Tate. And suffice it to say but it took me a long time to notice the obvious. Oh and the Ouija board stuff is all said by the same person, who isn't outright named but it's pretty obvious if you've seen the show, and if you haven't seen the show then what are you doing here? Thank you to my lovely betas, you guys are lovely and wonderful.
This is my ahs_exchange round three entry. It won BEST SMUT. That's three rounds in a row. I be dancin', dancin' yep all right...
Love, a question
has destroyed you.
He's starting to learn what she's known all along about people needing to be different people all the time. For awhile she wanted to be seduced, for once in her life to need something that wanted her.
But it didn't turn out well and now she won't even let him try, ignores him when he does.
Who he's going to kill now, what'll he ruin next, how horribly he fucked up the simple thing of giving her want she wanted like he did with getting Nora what she wanted.
It's alright; he doubts he'd get it right if she gave him the chance again anyway.
And she doesn't need to trust him to let him make her feel better, he can lie and fabricate and make it all up however she needs him to. Or, that's the way it used to be.
But it's still so strange to see her be her in a different way than before.
Be her and not care about him.
I have come back to you
from thorny uncertainty.
She's back. Back in the same way she first used to come around as. Sneaky, peeking around door-frames at him, or standing at the top of the stairs while he pretended to leave out the front door.
He knows someone has been watching him trying to fall asleep in his tiny basement corner, assumed it was the little Montgomery monster.
One night he rolled over and she was there. Legs pulled up to her chest, ankles crossed, bare feet dirty, knees scraped, shins bruised.
Large owl eyes watching him, moving in the dark. She isn't crying or smoking or scowling and she's gone when he says her name.
I want you straight
the sword or the road.
Before she started getting weird they had one conversation. His 'coming clean' speech that she dragged out of him.
"What do you want?"
He's in her room, a room that won't be her's much longer with the FOR SALE sign on the lawn changed to a SOLD one. He just shrugs and chews on a jagged fingernail.
Her chest puffs with a hard breath, "What are you, a fucking mime?"
"Do you forgive me or not?" He's impatient and her anger is contagious, he wants to give her a reason for it besides just his sudden appearance.
"You're a murderer, a rapist, and you were dead. Because of that I swallowed a bottle of pills and then you tried to hide my dying by getting me to play a whole Sid and Nancy do a Romeo and Juliet rendition of a fake double suicide to not only make me think I killed myself with you but also mind-fuck me again with a whole 'we did it together' thing that didn't work out because I already knew you were dead."
She closes her book and waits for his response. The only one he has doesn't quite live up to the expectations she has.
"I get it, okay? You're upset."
"Yeah. I'm upset." Her eyes narrow.
"I admitted it you know, to your dad. About your mom."
"You raped my mother, in a latex sex suit so you could pretend to be my dad."
"I raped your mom, while pretending to be your dad. Yeah. And then when she found out you and your dad thought she was crazy and locked her away at a mental institution."
He'll let her blame him for the shit he did, sure, he won't pretend it was anyone else's. He can't anyway. But he's not about to let her blame him for her fucked up family dynamics.
"She tried to shoot my dad."
"Because she thought it was me."
"Because she was mentally unstable and he thought she was going through a pre-post-partum psychosis."
He scoffs, "Your dad's a fucking psychopath."
"He's a narcissistic personality type, actually. You're a manipulator."
"And you're not?"
"I was fifteen."
"You're still fifteen."
"I had a birthday in the house before I died."
"Yeah. For how many years now?"
"Yeah. I was a little open to manipulation."
"You were in love with me."
"I was in love with the idea of you."
He laughs, bitter angry. Forever is a long fucking time, the past few years have felt like forever and then some. "Bullshit. Me. Not the idea."
"Yes," she hisses. "The idea. And yeah that idea might have been that you could have it in your head the urge to go out and kill people and fuck shit up but that you had the restraint to suppress you're fucking urges. All Byronic and tortured soul and blah blah blah."
"No. And then you went beyond that to the whole mother bird with fragile baby bird shit and creepy stalker 'I Love You' on my blackboard and watching me from doorways and crying and lying, again. Like a stupid little kid."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't want you to say anything."
She's up from the bed in a second, trying to slip away, somewhere else but he catches her arm and the look she gives him is poisonous. He stares her down, tightens his grip, because he's scared, alone, realizing forever is turning out to be longer than he originally thought.
"It's lonely here. Nora talked to me, she would only talk to me if it was about a baby. It was the only thing she cared about, and even then it started to not work anymore, she just acted like I wasn't there. Moira won't talk to me, the fags would fucking beat me to death if they saw me. She was it. And so…that's it."
He lets go of her wrist and she stays, waits. She's waiting for him to say everything he needs to say and then decide it isn't enough.
"Your mom happened even before we talked for the first time. I was just biding my time really, back then. I'd done what I'd had to do and then we talked and she turned out to be pregnant and things were already going to shit, again, with your parents, your dad's mistress showed up and I figured they'd divorce, you'd all move someplace pretty soon after the baby was born and you know… died, because I'd have killed it. For Nora. And so you'd all move away and things would go back to the way they were before you'd come."
"I don't know, I just thought you'd forgive me if I was honest, if I was sorry, if I tried to make it up to you. But you haven't and I don't know what it is that you want that I can give you that will make you forgive me."
"Don't think I will."
"Yeah, figured," he sits down on the edge of the bed that somebody alive will be sleeping in before the month is over. "Hard to forgive certain things. I set Larry on fire for killing Beau but it doesn't mean I forgave him for it. But it made me feel better. Knowing he's stuck looking like that forever. Knowing that he suffered and will keep on suffering. But I always hated Larry, it's not really the same thing with you and me."
"Yeah, because what we had was so special."
"It wasn't real."
She's given up on leaving, stomping off and slamming a door behind her. Small favors.
She lights a cigarette.
"I was lying about being dead and I hid stuff but I love you. I really do. And you did, before you found out. And you still think about me, about us, maybe not being in love with me but about all the things we could do together. But eventually things don't matter anymore, fuck ups and lies. They don't because one day it's going to be eighty years from now and your parents would have already died anyway and you too, probably."
She sits down next to him. Looks at him. Looks at the floor and smokes, "Eighty years from now if I was catatonic like Nora and you weren't would you try to fuck me?"
"I wouldn't let you get that way in the first place, but I don't know…I guess the possibility for me doing it would exist. But I'd prefer to have you like this, angry at me and not a mindfucked zombie than a mindfucked zombie I could have sex with whenever I wanted to, just because you wouldn't know what was going on."
"Of course," her words are poisonous too. "Mind-fucked zombie reminds you too much of drunk mommy number one and dead mommy number two."
It's him that folds first and gives her the space she wants and leaves her to find out on her own what loneliness is like in the Murder House.
But you insist
on keeping a nook
of shadow that I do not want.
And she's taken up razors again. Except, this time it isn't just for a quick fix, an easy high, it's habitual. Her self-inflicted tics against time spent in her Tiffany glass lit prison don't suck themselves closed like he once feared they would, they itch and scab and she picks them open again and again until her scars and ugly and raised.
She keeps it up until her arms form the touchable topography of fear and regret and all the awful things she's done and what other's have done to her.
And then it's the rest of her, the soft inside of her thighs that he can remember (or imagine) pressed tight against his hips, and the flat expanse of her stomach, and the notches of her ribs, the tiny rosebud breasts he's had his mouth on.
I love all of you,
from eyes to feet, to toenails,
all the brightness, which you kept.
He comes into the room; he's not expecting to find her. Not like she is. Pale and mostly naked, dress pooled around her hips and in her lap.
It's what she wears now, simple dresses, shapeless, formless, hanging off her bird wing shoulders and wafting around slender thighs.
No tights, no shoes, no ugly hats, just enough to cover the fact that she's so innocently nude underneath, a sad little coquette girl who doesn't even know how hard a hit she delivers to their dicks when she drifts by.
Once his father tried to get under one of those dresses, all hands and a mouth trying to find her; she bit him and scurried off, not scared just fully aware of the danger. She came back later and did things to his father that made him smile.
Things he was going to do later.
Things he did do once his father came around again to the land of the living dead.
But right now she's alone and perched on the edge of the bed in the master bedroom.
There are deep marks down her back, raw and angry looking. He knows she's been visiting the basement but the marks don't look like they're from Thaddeus.
She doesn't disappear like she usually does when she sees him, his reflection in the closet's mirror door.
Just lets him look.
That's the problem, he's too busy looking.
Too busy, engrossed in the red stripes on her skin, the way they're starting to rise, welted and bleeding in spots, bruising ugly dusky colors, to see what she's holding in her lax grip.
The expensive men's wear belt taken from the new homeowner's closet is hanging between her toes, the buckle dragging bloody smear lines around on the new carpeting.
His knees are pressed into the bed before he can tell himself to leave. He can't leave. Not when leaving means leaving her like this.
He pushes her hair off her shoulders and presses tender fingertips to the marks she's made.
She hisses and pulls forward before pressing back against them.
He's about to put his lips on them when her hand rises up and offers him what's in it.
It is I, my love,
who knocks at your door.
It is not the ghost, it is not
the one who once stopped
at your window.
There are times when she isn't what she's become; she's what she used to be. But when she's what she used to be she wants nothing to do with him.
She'll be smoking out in the portico and he'll sneak up in blue flannel and a smile that says 'hello' and 'looking good' and 'I found you' all at the same time. She'll scowl and ask him if he's trying to make her think they're back to before.
She'll raise an eyebrow, scowl, and tell him to fuck off.
He just wants everything, he wants to be happy, he wants her to be happy and sometimes he thinks if having that means tricking her into thinking she's not dead, doing what he does best, really, then it's worth it.
And he knows it's fucked up, to her it is, to most everyone else it is, but it doesn't really stick with him, it doesn't matter and he doesn't care.
I knock down the door:
I enter your life:
I come to live in your soul:
you cannot cope with me.
And then there are the times when she is more than what she's become, she's not a passive thing transmogrified and twisted by the house into a pain junkie freak girl with sideshow scarring and scary silence and dead eyes. She comes to find him, chases him, runs him down until he screams. A hide and seek game where he's tired and sore from hiding under the kitchen sink and her pretending she doesn't know where he is.
She'll sway forward, hip over hip, with smoke pouring out of her mouth, making his dick hard before she's close enough to even have an idea of what she's doing to him.
And then she'll kill him. And it will hurt.
You must open door to door,
you must obey me,
you must open your eyes
so that I may search in them,
you must see how I walk
with heavy steps
along all the roads
that, blind, were waiting for me.
He finds her watching the new owners having sex. Not strange sex, not particularly groundbreaking sex, it's all under the covers, lights off stuff. But they laugh and moan and whisper I love you's before, during, after. She doesn't touch herself or do anything afterwards. She just makes it a point to watch.
Those nights are the nights he'll turn over on his bare basement mattress and find her watching him.
Owl eyes and scabbed knees.
Like she's waiting for something.
On one of those nights he doesn't say her name, doesn't say anything, just sits up and pushes down the blankets and moves over.
Offering something that she takes, surprisingly. Slipping in next to him, letting him hold her, and he doesn't touch her, doesn't say 'I love you,' and she doesn't either.
He's not sure if she falls asleep, he tries not to.
He runs his hand over her arms and doesn't feel any scars.
But she never stays long enough for him to get up the nerve to speak or do something to make her want to stay, he's still too scared of doing something wrong, of all the wrong things he wants to do to her for making him wait so long for something like this. Solace. Sweetness. Peace. Some kind of release.
Do not fear,
I am yours,
I am not the passenger or the beggar,
I am your master,
the one you were waiting for,
and now I enter
no more to leave it,
love, love, love,
but to stay.
Is it sick that on the night she offered him that belt he took it?
That he gave her exactly what she wanted from him?
That he enjoyed being the one to hurt her?
Yeah, it does. He knows.
She liked it.
So, he doesn't give a shit.
I have named you queen.
There are taller than you, taller.
There are purer than you, purer.
There are lovelier than you, lovelier.
But you are the queen.
He rarely has the fortune of finding her the way she was when she was still alive. He finds her when she's already found him. Like those nights when she watches him, quietly furtive.
The mind-fucked zombie she's so scared of being forever. He gets it though; sometimes you just need to check out for awhile.
And when she isn't watching him she's watching something else, like her bones under the house, moldering and then turning into whittled down scraps as the years pass, one day they'll just be dust.
He's stolen some of her bones, made the ends sharp and mean, like she used to be, drilled out holes in them, strung them on wire, and presented them as a gift. Grim gifts for a little ghost girl.
She'll wear them on her wrist or throat and when she'll crawl onto the sparse futon mattress next to him in the dark he'll trace them until one of the sharp ends nicks his fingertips.
Once she sucked them into her mouth and laved at the little wounds until she fell asleep.
When you go through the streets
No one recognizes you.
No one sees your crystal crown, no one looks
At the carpet of red gold
That you tread as you pass,
The nonexistent carpet.
He can see the shift happening. From one thing to the next. The Violet who will curl up next to him and share body heat but not skin, not words, to the Violet who would rather just hurt herself and make him watch, make him take a belt or a razor or jagged bits of bone from her decomposed pile of remains down in the crawlspace out of her hand and do it himself.
It's a slow change, slower than seasons moving, slower than decaying; he catches it in glimpses. She'll push one of the twins down the stairs or not run away from Thaddeus like she used to. She goes out on Halloween one year, he watches her from the front steps and she turns with a smirk there that taunts him because he can't leave unless he wants to get beaten to death.
He doesn't wait up for her. When she finds him she's vacant and furtive like the way she was before leaving that morning.
And when you appear
All the rivers sound
In my body, bells
Shake the sky,
And a hymn fills the world.
They have another conversation once things are already weird. He's down in the crawlspace looking for her and finds the cache of things that she's left behind.
She's sitting on the low wall at the edge of the pit.
"Don't touch my stuff. You snoop around enough," she waves a new cigarette in his direction before lighting it. He's at a loss, he opens his mouth to say something but there aren't any words.
She rolls her eyes and blows out smoke. He takes a step, eager, hungry for her attention.
"I didn't mean…," her head tilts back in his direction but her eyes stare off at the wall, "Violet, I didn't think it…"
And her eyes snap back, they are angry. "You don't think, do you?"
He's angry too, now. He steadies himself with a breath. He doesn't like this new game. "No, I guess I don't." His lips twitch a little, self-deprecating. Her brow furrows and her nostrils flare.
"Why are you smiling? You think it's funny or something? You come around and spy on me, follow me, like I'm a little kid who isn't entitled to privacy."
She flicks her cigarette at him, he sways to the side to avoid it, "Stop. Just, stop. Stop coming down here, I come down here to be alone. With myself."
"Okay. I'm sorry." He wants to lunge at her. It's hard to hold back.
"Fuck you. Go away."
And he's gone, just as confused as before.
Only you and I,
Only you and I, my love,
Listen to me.
The next time she comes around, sweet and silent he tells her to fuck off. She looks wounded, small, hurt in some unbearable way. She stops coming and then slowly, not over days or weeks or even months, over the next few years he sees her less and less altogether.
He doesn't go to look for her in the crawlspace pit, because he promised her he wouldn't. And one day when she asks if he ever went there after she told him not to he won't have to lie.
She stays upstairs, causing ever increasing chaos. Playing poltergeist, breaking windows and light fixtures, moving furniture, pulling sheets off the living residents while they sleep.
Eventually he makes the move upstairs too, watching her like she used to watch him. That's when he would find her, carving herself up, a patchwork girl, offering him the opportunity to take his pound of flesh, or something equally dramatic.
Maybe it's penance. Maybe it's retribution. Maybe it's something else, not love anymore but need. A warped craving.
The House is whispering to her at night, the way it used to when he was alive. It's changed her. He can't help but ignore it; pretend it's nothing new, nothing strange. She's still Violet. No matter what, she's Violet. Maybe it's her way of growing up; there are worse ways to go about it.
He would know.
He can hear her talking to herself, to no one, to something he can't see late at night through the doors and hallways, disappearing into rooms he can't get to fast enough to catch her. She laughs, going crazy day by day.
And he plays guard at her door, running after her, keeping everyone else from offing her loony ass. It's fun some days, others it's a chore, and then every once in awhile he considers the idea of chaining her up in the attic, his dick will get hard and he'll jerk off to a fantasy of her locked away, safe from everything but him.
I remember you as you were in the last autumn.
You were the grey beret and the still heart.
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on.
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.
There's another horde of the living moving in. No kids. Not yet. They're working on it though. In the living room. On a sofa left behind from a family already scared away. No need to worry about the stains. His mind turns to cutting one of their throats while they fuck. Just for fun. Just because they look so fucking happy.
It's the second time this week that they're doing it. Ending another day re-staining the wood floors or washing windows or trimming the hedges by dragging each other into the den while yanking off clothing. The first time Violet was the one watching. In one of her long dresses with buttons down the front, unbuttoned too much on the bottom half, not for walking around but most definitely for sprawling into an armchair with her bare legs kicked up.
He'd been able to stand across the room and stare at the sweet dusting of curls between her little thighs, like damp kitten fur.
She doesn't touch herself, just watches.
She wasn't wearing her scars then. A rare occurrence, lately.
He's sitting in the same chair she was, sprawled really. Watching.
Right now it's just starting to get good. A floorboard creaks and it goes unnoticed by the couple across the room but not by him.
He pays it no mind until his eyes wander away from the half-dressed homeowners to the glass of the china cabinet. His chest goes tight and it's been awhile since he's been scared. Someone's standing behind is chair and it's someone with a shiny black mask and matching suit.
There's a gloved hand yanking on his hair, he pulls forward and the chair topples, he goes with it. The living in the room startle and then laugh. The woman says something about ghosts.
The man just makes ogey bogey sounds. Tate sits on the floor, unseen while they stare at the toppled piece of furniture for another moment.
His assailant is nowhere in sight.
The woman wants to relocate to the bedroom and the man wants to stay, the woman relents and Tate tries to breathe slowly, calm his skittering heartbeat.
Something grabs the back of his neck, it sticks there, latex.
He doesn't like to be fucked with.
The hand is gone; he turns to look behind him. Nothing. Again. Nothing besides the chair's matching ottoman, he leans back against it, lets out a soft laugh.
And then crouched in front of him is whoever it is.
The first thing he realizes is that it's not the same suit. Not one he'd ever put on, not one Ben Harmon ever put on.
The second thing he realizes is that it isn't Ben Harmon, or even Patrick looking for some belated revenge.
It's too small and the shape is too girlish and finally the last thing he realizes is why Violet didn't want him snooping through her final resting place and all the little treasures she's been keeping down there.
And then she's lunging forward, hard, with a hand curling around his throat. He grips the ottoman behind him, hard and stares.
Just her eyes, mean, dark, he can see the shape of her mouth underneath the black latex and her tiny little breasts, the ridges of her ribs against the sides.
There's nothing fancy. No silver grommets, no chains, just a concealed zipper at the back of the mask and between her legs and up her spine.
He doesn't like the mask.
He reaches out to slip his fingers under the edge of it but hers just tighten on his throat, the heel of her hand pressing, making breathing harder to do.
She coaxes him backward until his spine is pressed flat on top of the uncomfortable piece of furniture.
Her body stretches up a bit, between his open legs, her arm extended over his chest, her fingers moving from his throat to his cheek and chin to turn his head.
The homeowners are still writhing around, exchanging kisses, playful, so sweet it makes his stomach turn.
"Take it off," he breathes, knocking her hand off his face to turn his head and look up at her. She won't let him sit up and the position hurts his neck as he strains to see her.
She tilts her head and then bows it, reaching around to the zipper. She unzips it enough to push the mask up over her mouth.
When she folds over him, her mouth breathing warm and damp over his lips, she just smirks.
And when he opens his mouth to speak she shoves fingers in between his teeth, he grinds down on them, firm, not enough to break them with his mouth, but enough that her smirk becomes a scowl and prompts a response.
"Why? You didn't."
He gnaws on her fingers, her mouth comes closer, he won't open his mouth to let her digits out from between his teeth.
Her tongue slips out against his lips and he opens his mouth, her wet, suited fingers tear at his scalp, pulling at his hair and they kiss, hot and sloppy. His nose presses against the little mound of latex rolled up to the bridge of hers.
He's got fingers on the back of the mask and when she realizes, too fast for her to pull away; he's got them curled in it enough and yanks it up off of her face, dropping it to the floor limply, flippant even, a tiny pile of glossy black.
"That's better," he sighs, swoons for effect and smiles just to piss her off.
"What are you doing, Violet?"
"If you don't shut up I won't be doing anything."
He doesn't know if he likes this game yet, doesn't even know if it is a game so he shuts up.
"We're not going to have sex. But I'm going to make you want to. And maybe I'll let you cum in my mouth. But if you do something like that again I'll bite you, really really hard instead. You can talk now, but not too much."
"Because I want to, because I want you to be my bitch."
"Then shouldn't you b…-"
Her head bows again and her teeth bite down hard and sharp on the inside of his thigh, he screams in surprise, not loud, just once, roughly and in his throat.
"That's talking too much. Open your stupid fucking mouth."
He doesn't right away, she bites him again through his jeans, right at the edge of the first spot. His hands twitch, itching to grab the tight braid her hair's in to yank her off but he doesn't. Because while the rules are a little much he's starting to like whatever game she's trying to get him to play.
Because by now he knows it is a game.
When she lets go after enough time and enough teeth grinding on sensitive flesh and muscle for the rules to go from rough to excruciating he's got his mouth open and is making sounds to get her to notice, he knows she pretends not to for a moment longer just to make him whine, which is embarrassing and not something he's used to.
She reaches down and picks up the mask he tore off her head, balls it up and shoves it into his mouth.
Her mouth settles over it, kisses it and then she smirks again while pressing a thumb into where she's bitten him, twice.
She turns his head to watch what else is going on in the room while pulling his shirt up to his collarbones. Her tongue flicks out firmly across his nipple, mimicking the way the male half of the living couple laves at his pretty little wife's breasts.
But Violet's a biter.
She sucks at the spot she's all but chewed raw once she's done.
His flannel keeps forcing his t-shirt back down as he squirms. She pulls the back of it up from behind him and crawls up onto his lap, ties the corners tight around his arms still trapped in the sleeves.
It's not a good enough job that he's really stuck but he enjoys the little homemade bondage feel of it.
Enjoys it enough to go with it.
He groans against the latex shoved down deep in his throat, his mouth, twists up while she backs off and kneels on the floor, leaning forward to lick his stomach, press a cheek against the line of hair leading down past his belt buckle.
The heels of his converse squeak against the wood floor and thud on the ottoman.
She laughs, throaty and low.
The pretty wife on the couch moans, they both turn to see why.
Her husband's breathing over her sex through the cotton of her underwear, and she's got bare feet running over his shoulders, kneading his shirt with her toes.
There are small greedy hands running up and down Tate's thighs.
And then his belt is open and his pants are down around his calves.
Her hand is rubbing him, steady pressure, no hesitation, no questioning eyes asking 'am I doing it right,' she's perfectly at ease with making him uneasy.
She never used to be like this.
Before he remembers when she would put a hand down his pants with her face a few inches in front of his and how her eyes would widen in and then slowly they would narrow in discomfort, as if he was the one touching her in some sort of uncomfortable way.
She'd bite the middle of her bottom lip and stare down at his throat. When his breath would hitch she'd flinch and then he'd groan.
When she'd make to take her hand off of his dick back then he'd grab her wrist and hold it, she'd breath heavy and her face would flush and she'd mash her mouth against his, slippery tongue tap-dancing across his palate and under his tongue, and it was just the sort of shit that got her hot, made her little hand pump him just right, get him to cum in his pants and all over her fingers.
She must remember that that mean, hungry, part of her doesn't need him to drag it out. She can do it herself now.
There's a chorus of breathy vowels and obscene sounds effects from the couch, the accompanying visual of the wife arching up and tossing her head softly to the side while her husband works between her legs is doing a number on his ability to keep from squirming.
When he feels one gloved hand trace his bare dick he cants up towards it.
Violet's all half-lidded eyes and mean smile between his legs.
The ottoman is scratchy against his ass and he can't help pushing himself towards her. She licks him like a kitten, curious and soft. His throat hurts as a groan tries to rumble up and gets stuck in his mouth while she traces her lips with the head of his cock and licks the flavor away from them a second later.
The latex is cool and soothing against his aching balls, pressing them into the underside of his erection.
"I don't think you're going to last long."
He doesn't either.
She traces the topography of his dick with her tongue and laves wetly before sucking kisses into the skin of his thighs, the creases of his groin.
When she finally, finally, takes him in her mouth his eyes shut and roll off to somewhere deep inside his skull.
He wouldn't really call what she's doing giving a blowjob, it's more like some form of erotic torture, he tries to shove further, deep down her throat make her choke a little on him but he can't grab her head and hold it so she'll bob back and bite him again when he tries.
She takes two of her fingers in her mouth and sucks while using her other hand to move his balls around on the heel of her hand, and then he can feel wet fingers move deeper between his legs, skirting territory he's not used to having involved in foreplay.
He warns her with a sound lodged in his throat, some sort of threatening growl that she laughs breathily at as she probes firmly around the rim of his ass, pushing at and then inside of him and he can't get away from them.
Her mouth is back on him, and she rolls her tongue around the blunt head before moving it further down and swallowing around him. When he chases her mouth he just ends up with her fingers moving a fraction deeper.
His thighs are cramping from the strain and the underside of his ass is chafing on the rough upholstery, she twists her hand and she's two knuckles deep inside of him, fucking him with her hand.
There's a burn following the stretch of the intrusion but it's not something he can't cope with, and after awhile he doesn't even have to do that because she's got the last half inch of her fingers inside and they're curling and her mouth is a hot, humid heaven made for his dick.
The heel of her hand presses again on his balls and her fingers twist wetly inside of him, his eyes flick from the couple fucking a foot away and Violet's hollowed out cheeks and her fucking eyes.
Fingers cinch around the base of him and he moans, his orgasm is just about there and now it's trapped, all while his sac's sandwiched against his dick and her fingers are a tight circle right there where he can feel the throbbing pulse of release.
Inside her fingers thrust and curl and stroke something that makes his spine meld with the ottoman and his back bow, tight, he's stung out while she sucks hard once and lets go of her hold on him while she's finger fucking him into oblivion as he pounds out his orgasm down her throat.
His chest heaves and his vision spots black dots and static while he holds his breath.
"You look tired, Tate. I don't know why, all you did was lie there, like a little bitch." She emphasizes with a nip of teeth on his ear lobe, and then she's gone and he sags boneless with his arms still tangled in his shirt and his pants around his feet, cock flopping limply on his thigh and soreness in his ass that he doesn't completely loathe.
His little monster girl.
Clasping my arms like a climbing plant
the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace.
Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning.
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.
He cuts her throat with a piece of glass, it doesn't work the way he hopes, she dies but that's not the end result he was looking for, not totally. He just wanted to try to make everything about her turn back to the way it was before, upsetting the board and putting the pieces back where they're supposed to start. But when she wakes up she's just got one more scar for him to kiss.
She strokes it with fingertips lovingly and gives him one of the brightest smiles he's seen from her.
He wants to wrap his hands around her throat and try again.
He tries but she stabs him in the stomach and pulls it across. He's spilling his guts all over her while she tells him that wasn't where she wanted his hands.
I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off:
Grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house
Towards which my deep longings migrated
And my kisses fell, happy as embers.
He lights candles and she brings the board. It's nostalgic sitting across from her again. Except it isn't a game of Scrabble laid out in front of them. They put their hands on the planchette and it moves, he thinks she's just fucking with him.
She pulls her hands off the planchette and flips the board.
Sky from a ship. Field from the hills:
Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!
Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing.
Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.
She's going towards the crawlspace, he knows what she's going to come out looking like.
But he's got a cubbyhole of his own. And when she appears inky black and sleek on the other side of the basement he's already hidden in the shadow of the stairs.
It feels like a repeat of the past.
He took a whiff of Charles' ether for luck, for the ability to gather up some semblance of misplaced courage or nerve to meet her halfway.
Because that's what you do in a relationship. You compromise.
The mask she's wearing provides little in the way of peripheral vision, he slinks out and has got an arm around her throat and another around her waist before she even feels his body height through the second skin of her suit.
"Hey, Violet." He croons when he's got her back against the staircase.
He takes in her body with exaggerated head movements so she knows he's checking her out, "Special occasion?"
"I was looking for you."
"This time I was going to let you fuck me."
For a second time he rips the mask off of her, but she's quick and hated it the first time he did so this time he isn't going to get away unscathed. She's got a wicked piece of glass in her hand and she slashes at him, a dose of retribution for slitting her throat a week ago.
He stumbles into a mish-mash of forsaken furniture, takes off deeper into basement, leads her some place darker. More suitable, with a lesser chance of prying eyes.
But again he's ill-equipped to beat her at the games they play. She's hidden under the table he's standing next to, shoots up from underneath and nicks him in the thigh before pushing him backwards into a ratty velvet smoking chair that smells like mothballs and cigars and spilled brandy.
The zipper on the back of his mask scrapes his scalp hard and drags hair with it as she pulls it off of him, but he can breathe stale basement and Violet in more deeply, see her better too.
Her mouth is wet and her face is flushed, there's sweat dripping off her temple. The masks are unyielding and hot. He unsticks her hair and smooths it back off her damp forehead.
She presses it against his and sighs, readjusting herself on top of his lap.
"This is so dumb."
"Nothing dumb about you."
It must be the right thing to say because she juts her chin into his and her lips part against his after mingling their breath for a moment longer. She groans against his mouth and slides her hips back and forth along his thigh.
He can feel the snaps he thought were going to be a zipper holding the crotch of her suit closed press and push against his.
She whines a little.
He slides his mouth down around the skin under her ear, wishes he could suck a mark into her neck.
The latex squeaks a little, but it's just background noise against his shaky exhales and her tiny mewls as she writhes around on top of him.
His hands find their way onto her ass, grip tight and pull her closer, moving his thigh and bouncing her up and down on top of it.
"Lemme go," she whispers against his mouth.
He does, but only because he knows she isn't going to leave once she gets up off his lap. Instead she moves through the dark over to the table she'd been hiding under before.
He's up in a second pressing up against her back, dick straining against the inside of his suit and against the back of her spine, he thinks about all the times he's fantasized about coming on the delicate notches of her back, tracing his name in the mess of it later when she's sleepy and satisfied.
She arches her hips back into him and rolls them while he unsnaps the spot on the back of her neck where the tab of a zipper hides. It parts with a metallic groan, long and drawn out to twin dimples set between her hips.
He snakes a hand around and down between her thighs, rubbing the snaps back and forth over her cunt, her clit, her body follows his hand.
She leans forward and raises her knee to rest on the table edge, grabs his other hand and guides it into her suit, molds his gloved hand over a small bare breast and shakes.
"Open this fucking thing," she pants curling her fingers around his between her thighs, the snaps open with a pop and she lets out a vicious breath, relief. Her sex leaks hot and desperate outside the confines of the suit.
He pinches one tight nipple hard and she begs for his fingers, thrusts back like a greedy pet for them.
"Yeah, yeah. Tate." Her cunt clutches tight and she rocks back and forth, trying to get them deeper.
It takes awhile but she's practically purring once she's fucked herself on his hand into a tiny oblivion.
And then while she's coming down off orgasm reaches back and grabs the back of his neck, her lips parted and swollen while she unsnaps the top of his suit and rubs the zipper line fondly.
She's boneless and smiling when she turns back around. He grins back at her, teeth gleaming in the dark. He can be vicious too, "Hey, little monster."
"Hey, big monster"
She tip toes up and kisses him, sloppy, fuck drunk while she unzips him, pulling the sleeves off his arms and ties them around his waist while she strokes the stinging rents in his skin left by jagged glass, breaking their kiss to lick the red, crusted blood line of it.
Her thumb presses into the one on the inside of his thigh, he takes her hand away and pushes fingers under her chin, her tongue still a tiny wet point on his nipple when he asks, "You gonna let me fuck you yet?"
"Yeah, I'll let you fuck me with that big dick."
He laughs and her chest puffs out like an angry bird, "It's the only one you've ever seen before."
"Well, it feels big."
He wraps hands around her insubstantial waist, music box ballerina porcelain and that girl pink blush that spreads across her cheeks and down her neck over her chest, even if he can't see it, he remembers it.
"Because you're teeny tiny, Vee."
"You're too tall."
She smiles, smooth and bad, reaching out her arm and sweeping the collection of long forgotten mish-mash off the table top, kicking a crate that falls to the floor around their feet towards one of the table legs.
"Yeah, it's like I need a booster seat just to get fucked." And she stands on the crate, stance wide and inviting, rutting gently against the rounded corner of the table, suit sagging off her shoulders and hands splayed on the dusty tabletop.
He's behind her dropping kisses on her bare back, lips smoothing over scars he's made there.
"Come on, unzip. You don't need to be polite about it Sir Galahad."
He rolls his eyes and takes the open invitation to rudeness by shoving on her shoulders and knocking the breath out of her by flattening her front out on the hardwood, she wheezes a little, dust in her lungs while he's trying to get his dick out without catching a zipper on his skin.
She'd laugh for days if he got his balls stuck.
But then he's right there, pushing in, losing his mind a little.
He's forgotten how good it feels. Forgotten the sounds she makes while her body makes room for him inside, half protest and half last gasp, and he can't breathe.
Her hips cant up and down so she can rub her clit on the corner, press something firm against her mound, while his hands grip hip and shoulder and hers cling to the table.
"Hold on," he rasps in her hair before reaching for her leg, tossing it up on the table, she squeals and he kicks the crate out from under he other foot. It hangs inches above the floor, toes straining to reach it.
He's got her held tight enough so she doesn't slip but she whines desperately.
Her cunt grabs at him, snug and hot, while she makes a small sound of objection.
"I've got you, shh. Fuck."
She gets a hand under her chest and arches her shoulder back, turns her head, bottom lip held tight between her teeth and she whimpers, whines even, and he almost blows right then.
Her body doesn't want to let him go again, it's a slow, slow, drag out, and then in again, no hitches, just motion, because she's so wet, cunt spasming in delight. The next time he pushes faster, further and there's that sound he loves so much more than the ones coming from her mouth, wet, slinking, obscene sounds of them, of him fucking her.
She's twitching out her own rhythm against the table.
He wants to tell her to stop it, hold still, just let him please please please do what he needs to so he can come inside her and be happy for a little while, better than happy, resurrected, saved, hallejujah-ing, but she'd snark and do something awful to him.
Because she wants to come too.
Ladies first, and he's trying to be a gentleman.
Later he can dictate when and how she can come, one day when it's his game they're playing. Make her burn for hours, when it's his turn to make up the rules.
He wants to make up the rules so bad, for once.
Every once in awhile.
Give and take.
He's learned a few things about it recently.
He goes faster and her breath hitches until she gets out a breathless, "Gonna…"
"Yeah, come on."
"Ah." She makes one small, delicate outcry and he can feel the gush of orgasm, the wave of her insides, tightening, clutching, shaking, stuttering like a heart in his hand.
"Don't fucking slump. Fuck…, Vee. Oh fuck."
He rakes teeth against the back of her shoulder, bites into the tender muscles on the back of her arm.
When he pulls out he leave wet strings of reciprocated bliss on the shiny blackness of her suited thighs.
Later after they've lounged tangled together on a nest of black latex, drifting in and out of post-coital dozing she wanders away, stripping down and goes upstairs.
She lights candles around the bathtub and slits her wrists open like zippers and the water rapidly blooms red, like a messy underwater shark attack.
He's there when she comes back around in water that's sticking to her skin like some awful afterbirth caul, he rinses her clean again and gets in too.
All her little scars, tics of days across her skin, are gone now. Washed away. It's kind of poetic in a disturbed way.
There in the silence he realizes they both have secrets.
Her secret is that she wants to be a monster like him.
His is that he wants to be normal like she used to be.
But the house never gives you want you want for free.
You've got to suffer for it.
He's suffered for her.
tiny and naked,
as though you would fit
in one of my hands,
as though I'll clasp you like this
and carry you to my mouth,
So they play Risk and don't talk about her lack of latex in the past month, they don't talk about the sex they've had, he doesn't ask for a repeat, and she makes no moves forward from icy demeanor to warm disposition. He does look at her. Stares, really. Maybe a few once overs, sure.
Eventually her gaze gets mean and she swipes a handful of pieces off the board, she was winning anyway, and throws them in his face.
He can't help himself; he lunges over the board and slams down on top of her. She glares up at him, furious, expecting.
"You miss this?"
He looks at the floor around her head, her hair wisping out like the frayed ends of some lost piece of lace, touches it, rubs his fingers into her scalp while he drops to his elbows, flattens his chest against her and pressing his hips between her thighs.
"Letting me touch you, like this."
Like it's a lazy, dusty attic bound afternoon where they can pretend they're alive again.
"So, why don't you fuck someone else?"
It sounds like an insult. He rolls his eyes, her answer so juvenile, so ripe with the implication of fairness and truth better suited for if they were King and Queen of the jungle gym at a more tender age. This isn't playground love.
"If I did?"
"I think about it, that I might start if you did. But fucking someone else to spite you is wouldn't make you feel any worse, you'd feel like you'd deserve it, it's not a punishment if you accept it."
"I don't believe you."
"I think you just don't want anyone's dick inside of you. It matters to you, being in love in order to be able to fuck someone. It's not just fucking then."
Her eyes are a dangerous challenge, he can rise to it, whatever it may be; knives, fire, poison, sleeping beauty put to sleep with a handful of barbiturates, slaking the dragon sized want and need inside of her. "You want me to say it?" But her voice is so soft.
"You don't have to. I know you still hate me sometimes. You should. I hate you sometimes, too. But you've never not been in love with me. I'm not an idiot. So you don't have to say you love me. But you have to tell me you want me to fuck you, because I want to hear you say it."
Her head turns to the side, he speaks into her ear.
She always pretends to be dismissive when he says things she doesn't like, tiny truths, admissions, forever in terms of promises instead of prisons.
"I like that it's hard for you to say that because you hate me so much and that it means you actually want something from me that you have to ask for."
He kisses the thump of her carotid artery, "I let you do all the mean things you like to me, because it makes you feel better."
Going, going, going, gone.
my feet touch your feet and my mouth your lips:
you have grown,
your shoulders rise like two hills,
your breasts wander over my breast,
my arm scarcely manages to encircle the thin
new-moon line of your waist:
in love you loosened yourself like sea water:
She looks downright sullen smoking on the staircase steps, he sits down beside her and sees the bright red bloom of maternal displeasure across her cheek, "What happened to your face?"
"My mother's hand happened to my face."
He nudges her shoulder with his and smiles. But she just smokes and scowls, "Yeah, I was like twelve the last time she slapped me for something."
"What'd you do?"
"She asked me if it was true I was dry humping you in the attic."
"And who gave her that idea?"
She turns and gives him a look, it isn't a nice look, "Hayden, she plays with Beau sometimes. She saw."
She shrugs and snubs out her cigarette on the stair banister, "Let's go upstairs."
Her head ducks a little closer to his and her fingers knot in his shirt, he eyes full of dirty promises of everything she wants to do with him, to him, "I want to, okay?"
Giving her one quick chaste kiss he smiles, "No, you want to spite your mom. Besides, I gotta go do something."
Her mouth opens comically wide, offended. He pulls on her ponytail on his way back up the stairs.
It's dark out by the time they run across each other again.
"What happened to you?"
He touches the crusted scratches on his neck and chin.
"The she-wolf." Hayden, namely.
"What'd you do to her?"
He shrugs, "She's in the attic. Been awhile, but if you go now she's probably still there."
She goes, smiling.
It's after midnight when she finds him, at the top of the stairs, leaning over the banister, contemplating things, the quiet of the house.
"You should go have some fun. Might help." She suggests, smiling a little.
"I'd have to find someone to murder."
"Who pisses you off."
"You do, usually."
"I'll let you slit my throat."
The conversation is amusing, "You'd let me kill you?"
"For fun. At this point in time."
"I don't have a knife."
"I'll go get one."
She just about twirls away to flounce down the stairs, he reaches out and grabs her wrist. Gives her that soft, charming, slow as syrup grin.
"This is easier," he murmurs in her ear before pulling her closer and picking her up.
He throws her over the banister and watches the blood seep out from under her cracked skull.
I can scarcely measure the sky's most spacious eyes
and I lean down to your mouth to kiss the earth.
He's got her head in his lap, brushing the bloody hair back into some semblance of order, bits of skull skitter out across the floor if he tugs too hard when she makes a sound, a small wince curling her face. He pauses, "You alive?"
"Yeah," she mutters, raising her head off his thigh and scooting away across the hardwood, sitting in front of him with her legs folded under her. She looks small and world-weary.
"Take off your clothes."
He laughs, her face goes pugnacious and pinched. He pats the arms of the chair he's sitting in and rubs the fabric of it under his palms, "Nah. I'm pretty comfortable with them on."
She rolls her eyes and sighs, "Let's not do this, okay?"
"I want to have sex with you."
"Yeah? Getting thrown down the stairs is a turn on for you?"
Her eyes narrow but she doesn't say anything.
She snaps, "How fucking ballsy of you."
"I could do it again." He doesn't mean it to come out as icy and sharp as it does but she twitches and takes a breath, looks at him and looks excited at the idea.
"You're a little freak, you know that?"
"Shut up," it's half whiny protest, half grumble.
He leans back, shifts his legs a little bit, open wide, leans his head on his fist and give her a once over, "You could take off your clothes though."
"You want me to fuck you," he tilts his head, "can't if your clothes are on." She scowls, "You first."
"I'm comfortable, like this, right here." He pats the chair again and smiles.
"What do you want, a lap-dance?"
"No. I'm not the one that wants to have sex, you are. So, convince me."
"I don't want to play games, Tate."
"Scrabble's a game, this isn't Scrabble, ergo this is not a game."
"Ergo you're acting like a shithead."
He shrugs, "Okay."
She crosses her arms but the effect is a little lost on him since she's still sitting on the floor in front of him, pissy and childlike. Surly, annoyed.
"Not a game then."
"Nope." He nods once.
"Feels like one."
She goes up on her knees and sinks back down on her haunches.
"So did what happened in the living room and the basement but those weren't games. Games have rules."
"And this doesn't?"
"What doesn't? Sex?"
"Yeah, sex. It could."
"Well, we're not having sex right now are we?"
"I want to."
"Not everything's about you, Vee. What about my feelings? Maybe I don't feel like it."
She looks down at the floor, stays just like that for a minute, head hanging, and then she looks up at him through the fall of her hair, "What do you want me to do?"
And that's all it takes for him to know he's won the practice round of this particular game, "I usually want to have sex with you more when you're naked."
"Go on. Take your clothes off."
Slowly she gets up, the cardigan comes off easy, she drops it flippantly on the floor next to her feet. She undoes the laces on her boots hard, they flick out and smack the leather hard, one and then the other she tosses them off to the side, one hits the walls with a bang.
And now things get harder for her, having to decide what to strip out of first. She goes for her tights, reaching under her skirt with slow hands and pulling them down, her feet stuck inside while she stumbles to get them off with a slow pull.
Her toenails are painted lavender pastel, they curl against the floor. She looks up at him.
"You're face is turning red."
Again her face goes mean and she pulls her long sleeve thermal off with no pretense, no hesitation, angry at him for making her want to do this with him, for liking it, for liking that he makes her so angry.
She unhooks the pretty lace sling thing she wears more than a real bra and flings it at him, he bunches it up in his hand and smells it like a creep, it's warm and smells like cigarettes and body lotion.
Her stance shifts as she rocks on her feet, pushing her hair off her shoulders, off her tiny breasts.
"Your nipples are hard."
Her blush is a furious splattering of pink across her face and neck and her chest heaves, "They do that. Laser light shows take place every Thursday, fembot revue."
"But not funny looking."
She shakes out her hands a little but he can see that they aren't steady when then move to her panties, sliding them down, her hips wiggling and her legs moving to shake them down to her ankles, she kicks them somewhere behind her with her toes.
He wishes she would have thrown them at him too.
"Now what, Tate?"
"If I asked you to crawl over to me, would you?"
She swallows, and opens her mouth, no words come out, it's not anger or shock, just a lack of anything to say, she mutters a small expletive and wipes at her eyes.
She swallows, trying not to cry. Her voice is uneven and watery, "…I don't know. I can't do this all the time, I don't…"
He leans forward and smiles, easy, soft, nothing vulgar or creepy, "Can't have cookies and ice-cream for dinner every night, right?"
"No," she nods, and slowly kneels down on the floor, her hands coming down and then she's crawling, towards him and grabs his knees, fingers clutching his jeans, a little skittish but more than a little turned on.
He lets his head tilt back while she stretches up and straddles his thigh, perched on the edge of the chair with her knees. Hands sliding over his thighs and hips and up his chest to finally rest on his shoulders.
She's chewing her bottom lip and then the inside of her cheek. Waiting.
"Does this make you wet?"
"Let me feel."
She catches his wrist, maneuvers it between her thighs, moves to press it right up against her hot little cunt, trap it there, "No, stay like that."
He holds his hand under her, feels the wet heat drip out over his fingers, he moves them so they just graze her warmth. Her eyes lid and flutter a bit, her hips moving down, he pulls his hand away. "You don't listen so good."
Her eyes open wide, fast when his fingers latch onto a nipple and pinch, twist gently, then harder. She winces.
"Yes." Her breath hitches, she pushes her chest out towards him.
"Good?" He twists harder and she gasps, "Yeah."
He pulls one into his mouth and uses his teeth, she squirms, her fingers opening and closing on his shirt, gentle, careful.
"I'm going to go sit on the bed." He tells her, she moves as he does, sitting in his vacated spot while he moves and sits down on the edge of the bed. He's about to tell her to open her legs and let him watch her come but she's already dropped down to the floor, moving closer, ass swaying behind her as she crawls over to him. His tongue goes numb inside his mouth and she's already between his knees, her hands on the inside of his thighs, thinking she knows what he wants from her next but she doesn't.
He's got her hands, "No. Lay down."
She blinks, owlish and confused. Does as she's told.
He covers her. Her forehead wrinkles, "Your belt's digging into me."
"Take it off me."
Her small hands maneuver down between them, he tenses when they brush the shape of his dick behind his jeans, and the heat of her fingertips under his shirt for a scant, bare moment as she pulls the belt through the loops and drops it onto the floor.
"This too." She whispers, hands clutching his shirt. He gives in. Throws it over the side of the bed, presses his elbows down into the bed, frames her face with his hands, feels her chest brush against his with every inhale.
"You're still so little."
"You're not that much bigger."
"You weren't I mean, you got taller. I think."
It may just be their time apart, or it may be the house, it may be time moving so wonderfully slow or not at all if that's what they want, but he's changed, so has she.
She runs her hands over his arms, appreciation obvious in her eyes, her fingers running the span of his chest, his stomach, settling around his back.
"No. You're heavier on top of me."
"Calling me fat?"
He nudges between her legs with his hip and her mouth fails her, "No. You've got…"
He smirks in the space next to her ear, kisses the corner of her mouth, "What have I got?"
"Violet," he runs his hand over her ribs and over her chest, thumbs each rose tipped point, she sighs.
"Your hands are rough."
He traces her mouth with his thumb, pulling at the chapped bits, they bleed and she hisses.
She laves and pulls at two fingers with her tongue, sucks and hollows her cheeks, he pushes them in further and she gags a little, bites him hard, coughs and hisses again, "You're a jerk."
"No, you're not."
She knows him and all his lies.
"What are you doing?"
His fingers are between her thighs, tracing her most intimate parts, stroking, gentle, a tease.
Her head presses back against the bed and her hips tilt up, "Put them in me."
He slips two inside, feels her clench, fucks her with his hand, one, two, three, the sound makes his spine hot, liquid, like jell-o. When he goes to add a third she reaches for his wrist, "Wait," he stops and waits for her eyes to open. They're blissed out, swallowed by her pupils.
"Wait. Your fingers are bigger than mine."
"You look like you're drowning."
"You don't need to breathe."
"I'm so close. Come on."
She's hot, wet heat all over his hand, her neck straining and feet pressing on the backs of his calves, toes trying to hold on, He kisses her forehead, "Shhh."
She's ready to twitch and writhe and come, he pulls his fingers out, runs his knuckles along her slit, takes in the desperate bucking of her hips to get something back inside of her, "No! Tate, please."
"Say that again."
"Please." A breathless little mewl. He's so fucking hard it hurts.
"Please." A whine this time, a plea. Begging.
She makes an angry sound and kicks at his legs with her heels, too late now. She looks like she's ready to cry.
"Aw, are you mad now?"
She won't look at him, slaps the hand on her cheek away.
Her eyes cinch shut and her shoulders shake, she's crying, face red and blotching.
"Hey, hey!" She just pushes at him. "Hey. What's wrong?"
"Get offa me."
And she turns and kicks herself away from him, curled up on the side of the bed. Angry, hurt.
"Oh, Vee. I was just kidding." He laughs and she glares, he mouths at her shoulder, bites a little bit, tries to lick her throat but she elbows him in the cheek.
"If you don't want to then I'll just do it myself," she grumbles and curls up tighter, all angles and words.
"You're really ugly when you cry," he says and she turns and smacks him, he takes her hands, kisses them, his fingers still wet from being inside of her, "Don't cry."
She lets him lay her down again, grabs his hair. "Kiss it better." He smiles, "Kiss it?" He mumbles against her collarbone as he slides down her body. Her fingers carding through his hair until he lays them flat on the bed with a look that makes her keep them there.
"Make me come."
"Yeah. Gonna make you feel so good."
Her stomach concaves under his lips.
And she stifles a girlish wail against the pillow when he opens her up and presses a tongue to her clit, gentle pressure that leaves her twitching, "Does this feel good?"
She's just about breathless, nude and pretty underneath his hands and his rules, because it's his game.
"It feels good, Tate"
Monotone. Classic Violet snark.
"Yeah," he agrees, licking a stripe up her sex. His jaw aches a little and his chin is wet with her, before she really starts squirming, barely breathing, face turning red, fingers rigid and twisted up in the sheets.
He presses a wet kiss to her thigh and gives her a break. She sighs, beautifully and asks softly, "Are you going to fuck me?"
"Would you like me to?" He grins, wet mouth and face pillowed on her mons, her pelvis arching up, trying to rub her cunt against the stubble underneath his chin.
"Are you going to make me beg?"
"Could I get you to beg?"
"Eventually." She admits.
"I don't think I'm patient enough for that."
The sound she makes is relief and it makes him laugh a little. She lies back and pulls a sweaty curl of his with her finger, "I want you to fuck me."
"Maybe I want you to fuck me." Her head pops up like a curious rabbit and she nods, her lips swollen and wet as her tongue peeks out, she nods again and he stands up next to the bed.
She kneels on the mattress and helps him out of his pants, scoots back when he sits back down, her eyes welded to his hard-on like it's the prize she wants most at some just-come-to-town carnival. She settles over him, presses his shoulders into the bed frame and grips him in a loose fist before trying to line herself up.
He pushes her hair back for her when it gets in her eyes. She nudges him, slides him along her slit, traces the secret parts of her body with the leaking swollen head of him, he wonders who it's supposed to tease.
Maybe she's nervous.
"Put it in, Vee."
She looks at him, lust rolling around in her eyes, spinning deep down in the aqueous humor and through her tiny frame just like the slow sway of the wetness leaking out of her. He watches her face as she fits herself around him, puts his hands on her thighs to feel the muscles bunch and shake as she holds her breath and sink down, stops, slips more of him inside.
Her bottom rests on his folded ankles and she squirms around trying to get comfortable while her swollen insides hug him and clutch and ease her descent with humid damp heat.
"Does it hurt?"
She sags against his chest, breasts smushed against hard pectoral, breathing uneven and tired on his throat, making his hitch.
"You're so warm."
She rubs forward and back, turning his groin into a mess of slow burning orgasm to-be. She rides him, slowly; her hands over his shoulders and holding onto the bed frame while he holds the back of her head and rolls his pelvis against the bed in circles, moving his cock around inside of her.
She licks at his throat and groans, her ankles digging in hard against the small of his back when she moves harder, rubbing her clit against his pubic bone. Panting while she comes, eyes shut tight and mouthing his jawline.
When she's done, sated, wonderfully pliant and loose-limbed she pecks a kiss to his cheek, "You go on top."
"Yeah," she pulls off of him and falls back, legs open and swaying, knees almost knocking together while presenting him with the sinful sweet view of her swollen cunt, wet and bright pink, "do…do what you want."
He's on top of her, pushing inside, all the way, harder than she can really take, fucking her like it's the last time he's going to be allowed to, pretending his isn't allowed to fuck her as he does it.
"Love you. I fucking love you." He tells her while her limbs curl around him and her fingers bruise his skin, trying to hold on. He thinks she may be crying, just a little, while he isn't looking at her face, because she only can cry when he isn't able watch her do it.
Later she has to slip out of her position as little spoon, his body heat, the bed they've reclaimed as their own to go down to the basement.
He isn't with her this time when she sets up the board and lets the planchette move under her hands and that's okay, sometimes you only get answers when you're alone.
Advice from a nicer afterlife.
My eyes went away from me
Following a dark girl who went by.
She still watches him.
Upstairs sitting on a window seat.
He'll glance up from his own perch on top of the tombstone gazebo and catch the burning orange speck of her cigarette in the dusky light of day's end behind the window.
She was made of black motherofpearl
Made of darkpurple grapes,
And she lashed my blood
With her tail of fire.
He has to make do with her anger management problems every once in awhile. Her compulsion to leave him sweaty, tired, bitten and bleeding a little at the edges of where she's bruised him.
She'll fuck him.
And fuck him again.
Get angry when it's been hours and he can't get it up for a fifth or sixth time.
But there's a certain type of glee that comes from her when she pushes him off the bed and climbs on top, his back burning from the drag of skin across the wood floor.
After them all I go.
She hurts, terribly. Cries. And he comforts her.
They're still so young.
A pale blonde went by
Like a golden plant
Swaying her gifts.
And my mouth went
Like a wave
Discharging on her breast
Lightningbolts of blood.
He likes her damp and dewy from the bathtub. Flushed pink and steamed tender. He'll sneak up and swing her towel away.
She's always surprised.
Always screechy and shy and angry because she's naked. Wild and ready to run.
Tag, he's it.
After them all I go.
She's his. Pretty girl, snarking and petty, stretched out in-between bunched bed blankets, socks and panties and one of her long sleeve thermals, dropping ashes on his bare stomach while he sleeps and she reads.
But to you, without my moving,
Without seeing you, distant you,
Go my blood and my kisses,
My dark one and my fair one,
My broad one and my slender one,
My ugly one, my beauty,
Made of all the gold
And of all the silver,
Made of all the wheat
And of all the earth,
Made of all the water
Of sea waves,
Made for my arms
Made for my kisses,
Made for my soul.
A/N: Happy belated Valentines day. I got presents from two fabulous friends and went to the movies with my mother to see Silver Linings Playbook. I am working on another long fic, long like Magic Words or Toska long.