You are the darkness.
In the darkness, he touched the wispy strands of her hair fanned out across her pillowcase, his motions illuminated by the silvery glow of moonlight. She remained asleep, her breathing even and steady, unaware of the presence by her bed, the hand near her face.
He studied the slope of her nose, the curve of her mouth, and the steady rise and fall of a chest protecting lungs that no longer needed air. But it was such a practiced and habitual motion, the rise and fall of her chest, that even in death she looked flushed with life.
His fingertips wandered to the place where her heart once was and settled tentatively, lightly, to search for a nonexistent beat.
The memory of her naked astride him, begging so sweetly for Please, Tate, more, fleeted across his mind, a whispery tendril of smoke that was gone as soon as it appeared.
He watched intently the flutter of her eyelids in her sleep, the slight twitch of her fingers in dreamland.
"What are you dreaming about?" he breathed into the night, his words melting into the space between his body and hers.
She continued sleeping, unaware of his presence so close to hers.
"Please, Tate, more," she begged, a short gasp ripped from her lips as he gave a particularly hard thrust upwards into her, their bodies melded together in a flush of hard muscle and soft skin. Smirking, he dragged his finger along the curve of her prominent hipbone and his hand wandered further south, meeting the slippery, wet flesh of her cunt. Without removing himself, he pushed further into her, hitting her cervix just so he could watch her mouth drop open and eyes roll back.
He did a lot of things just so he could study her reactions; she was endlessly fascinating, this sleeping ghost of a girl in front of him.
You're the only light I've ever known.
Violet stirred to consciousness, and he watched, fascinated, as her feet moved first, position shifting, face burrowing further into the pillow where she rested her pretty head.
A moment passed, and her arms moved, fingers flexing. He watched as her eyelids fluttered faster; the tiny motions of miniscule veins across her eyelids, furiously pumping blood, sped up.
She awoke with a hitch in her throat and a name on her lips, but he was gone before her breath materialized to speech, before the desperate "Tate," could tumble out of her mouth.
He could study her in her sleep, but he couldn't face the inevitable accusation in her brown eyes.
His gaze dropped to obscene sight of her small opening swallowing his fleshy, thick cock. He studied the slick glaze of wetness that coated his throbbing member as he pumped back into her suppliant body. Fuck, he thought in a haze of pleasure, her pussy was so hot and tight; they must have been made for each other, the way she fit around him so snugly. But it's only when she raises a hand to his face and runs her unsteady, sweaty fingers across his strong jawline and whispers, "Tate," that he feels a rush of possessiveness towards this girl— she's his, forever and always, and he will never give her up.
He watched from the shadows as she ran shaky fingers through her thicket of hair, lips parted to take short gasps of air into her dead lungs. He imagined watching her watch him take those delicate pianist's fingers into his mouth, two of them to be precise, and lave and probe at that sensitive web of flesh that connected them until her gasps became pants of pleasure, and then he would bite down and she would yelp and cry and beg for his forgiveness as he licked the blood from his lips.
He would grin at the sight of her lovely eyes filling up with salty tears, and then, as she cried over her broken fingers, he would gather her into his arms and she would bury her face into his chest as she had burrowed her face into that pillow. She would trustingly press her body so closely up against his and beg for his forgiveness...
Tate felt a tightening in his groin, a twitch of pleasure, at the thought. He would fuck away her tears, press his mouth to hers and make her taste the heady iron of her blood on his lips, and her mouth would part and moan for him.
You're all I want.
Violet threw the thick comforter off her body and gently placed her head between her knees, breathing deeply, as if woken from a nightmare.
He watched as Vivien swooped in on the scene, gathering her shivering daughter into her arms.
"Shh, it's okay Violet," she assured her as ragged sobs tore from Violet's throat, "You did good, sweetheart, you did what you had to do."
Fury burned white-hot through his veins as he heard mother talking to daughter. How dare she comfort his Violet? How dare she lead his Violet away from him?
Vivien continued to murmur comforting assurances into her daughter's ear, and for a maniacal second, Tate envisioned Claudius pouring the deadly sweet hemlock into the unsuspecting ear of the King of Denmark.
How fucking tragic, Tate thought to himself darkly.
And in the silence of the dark, the ghost whispered to Violet, "Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder," and she, the pliant and filial daughter, listened with attentive ears and shoved aside her love.