AN: I haven't posted anything on here on years, have two term papers due tomorrow, this probably has a tons of errors, and it totally wasn't what I meant to write. It's 1 part introspective, 1 part smexytimes, and totally open for multiple chapters. I'm a barrel of fun, no? Italicized are Violet's thoughts…. Maybe.

Oh and I own nothing.

"May I?"

His voice whispering against her ear wakes her, but she refuses to open her eyes. She's been doing that a lot now—keeping her eyes closed even when she should open them. With Tate in the shower, with her dad's arms around her as he tried to comfort her even though he didn't fucking get it, when she ran and ran and ran from Constance's house, when she saw those three words written neatly across her chalkboard—she closed her eyes, even though she knew she should open them, knowing she needed to face whatever this was, wherever this was.

Right now the voice in her ear sounded like Tate, the body pressed against hers felt like Tate, that faint almond scent in the air smelled like Tate, but she didn't want to open her eyes. She could be dreaming right now, for all she knew. She knew it was night, could feel the cool thinness of the air from her open window. She knew her last lucid memory was Tate falling asleep in her arms after he said he loved her—he loved her—and her falling soon after him, giving into the exhaustion and the sadness that enveloped her. But she doesn't know for sure this is him. How could she?

"Are you sure, Violet?"

She hears him whisper, this time as he licked around her neck, sucking and biting and breathing—don't you breathe when you're alive?—and she just groans.

"Yes."

She knows he needs an answer. If this is real—real is what you can touch, isn't it?—she knows he needs reassurance. Wants to know—really know—that she wants it.

"Tate. Yes. Please."

She knew if she opened her eyes and looked at him he would trust in her responses—he would know she was real—but she can't open them. Not now. If she opened them he might look like that thing in the basement that no one talked about. Or like those kids on Halloween—kids, not ghosts—with their gaping wounds. He might have empty soulless eyes like those of a killer and she can't—won't—see that.

Violet keeps her eyes closed, let's her mind drift somewhere between sleeping and wakefulness—isn't that where they were anyway? His hand is against her mound, hot and calm yet insistent. The heel of his hand was pushing against her clit, not moving, just placing a gentle pressure that made her angry with frustration. She doesn't mean to say anything out loud, but she must because he chuckles—this time against her neck—and says,

"I'm right here."

And she doesn't have the heart to question that—what is right here? Where is right here?

He removes his hand, but only to pull her panties down till they're off her legs and being thrown across the room as she hears a small thud in the corner. Before she can process, his hand is back against her, the same way, just a hot gentle pressure. She cants her hips forward and the motion pushes his fingers past just her slippery lips and they both gasp and the surprise of it.

No one has ever touched her like this—except herself—but some how the action feels familiar. She is squeezing her eyes shut now—because she wants to see him so bad—but she doesn't, can't. She just rolls her head back, tries to stay in the dream world.

Two of his fingers press into her with purpose, sliding wetness along her lips to her clit, drenching her with her own arousal. His two fingers roll her clit around and everything starts to get to be too much—hasn't it always been too much? His mouth is against her breasts, biting and sucking her nipples through her shirt. She arches against his mouth and he pulls the v-neck down with his teeth—how fucking hot—so there is no boundary between his hot mouth and her skin. He uses his tongue to fleck against nipple with the same rhythm his fingers her clit and she wonders how long this has really been going on because she feels so close to cumming.

She moans out loud and she can hear Tate whisper 'fuck' in response against her chest. Then his mouth is on top of hers and she's pushing her fingers though his curly hair and her tongue into his mouth. His fingers never leave her, but instead move downward till they're pumping in and out of her, the wetness slipping down past her thighs and ass.

His two fingers are sliding inside her over and over and over and she just wants to cum, now. He seems to sense her urgency because his mouth leaves hers and moves to her neck and suck a hickey into her skin that she'll have to cover with scarves all week—if this is real. His fingers stay inside her, while his thumb moves to circle around her clit at an agonizing pace. He's keeping her on the edge—they both know it—and she just wants him to stop. Wants him to finish her off so she can feel her body ache and tense and calm all once.

"Violet, look at me."

She laughs at his request—like she hasn't known this whole time that's what he wanted—and her response garners her a bit of punishment, as his thumb leaves her clit all together and just press teasingly against her slit. He won't ask her again—that's too dramatic for his taste—but she also knows he won't let her cum till she does as he asks. He wants to know that she's right there with him.

How can she give him something he can't give her?

His fingers go deeper and deeper insider her and she can feel his eyes glaring at her, willing her to look at him.

What if he's not there when she opens her eyes? What if it is one of those monsters?

She hears him exhale deeply—can someone exhale sadly?—and that's it. She has to look at him, has to face the darkness no matter what the consequences are. Her eyes shoot open and she feels like her heart is going to stop when she finally looks.

It isn't a monster.

It's Tate and his eyes are full of love and wonder and they're both awake. His thumb moves to press hard against her clit and his fingers push in deeply and finally—finally—she's cumming against his hand and clenching and moaning and saying his name over and over again like her life depended on it. Maybe it does. When her body stops spasming and she relaxes, he climbs on top of her, takes her face in his hands and just stares.

"I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you."

She doesn't know who says it. Maybe they both do. They probably both do. And they mean it. He's over her, breathing heavy, pressing his hardness against her core, sweat across his brow.

He's here—he's fucking alive god damnit—and that makes the darkness worth looking into.