Title: Hey Hey My My
Author: paceyourself
Summary: Sometimes she wonders if he sneaks in and unravels her at night because she always seems to wake up in bits and pieces.
Rating: Mature.
Spoilers/Warning/Triggers: Language, sexual situations, violence, femslash.
A/N: Part ot the AHS gift fic exchange, this fic was written for Mel Like Mellow. Mel wanted "yummy" Violate, Hayden and Violet meeting for the first time and just generally lots of Violate, I also added a Violet/Michael scene. This fic was inspired by White Ring's song Hey Hey My My.
Every fic I read was amazing it was such a pleasure to take part but also read everyone else's masterpiece fics that was the highlight for me You're all such talented AHS fic writers, best fandom ever *hugs*. I GOT BEST SMUT! f yeah, seriously I was surprised considering I read some mind blowing smut i nthis fic exchange, it meant a lot to me because it was my first time writing smut in a fandom so aesthetically kinky!
Congrats Scarletwoman Dive In Me was beautiful, you deserved your win so much hun :) Your fic is like how everyone wishes the most romantic and fluffiest moments of their adolescence was except a million times more exciting, amazing and epic, just lovely. I read it about five times over. There's something about kiddie Violate that's just so raw and pure and ScarWo smashed it! :)
Toska - by Gray Glube. Yeah wow. This fic has several parts to it and the fact that there was a Nabokov reference told me straight away, this is a glube fic! XD Blew me away if I'm honest, The language, meataphors, imagery, smut everything we love and worship about Gray Glube fic empire, this fic was the definition of "Toska" and revealed a side to Violet that was so different yet so canon and I was left feeling mellow in the best posible way.
Neptune Oyster by shootingstella, The best fic I could of asked for, it's fantasy, it's adventure it's a whole load of sweet Violate and the location is magical, the plot was flawless. So much love!
Lastly, to jandjsalmon for her dedication to this fandom and running of the fic exchange, you're an inspiration, thank you. :)
Hey Hey, My My
She's alive inside still.
In silence, consciousness flourishes. It's unbearable sometimes, you have to listen close but if you do there's a buzz, a drone like the workings of a beehive and the other ghosts are swarms of bees because there just isn't enough honey in the house no victims to lubricate the walls and floors red. When the hive is malnourished, the colony cease to feed on anything other than their own misery it's malignant stick, no mercy no retribution just sadness any happiness marred by the unwillingness to forgive and forget or rather forget at least, because there's nothing to forgive then and that's the harder half of it.
Prisoners, to their own happy misfortune, dead as the wet wood or mildew that rots in dark corners of rooms and ceilings without the breath of the living to incubate in, old unclaimed furniture pieces and window boards, unlived in since...
Without cause or exit, the house becomes John Paul Sartre and they, locked in a room for eternity with only the company of each other, each other's monsters and themselves. Residents, like clothes in cluttered drawers. It's dark enough not to have to care, enough to want to close your eyes and she does because it's her only real escape from the world and it feels more like real death.
Conscious energy is what keeps her here, a phantom ill at rest and present, the house thrives on it. It's hard but possible to stab out oneself into a location that is not exactly any one place in the house, a mindlessness so soft you float like stale air in pockets of darkness at peace and in isolation.
It's hard for him to hear her consciousness sometimes but he always can. She tries not to dwell on stuff.
She reminds him of a rag doll, she's just fallen off the shelf, been mauled and trampled on by passing children and dogs. She wouldn't look right in most girl's toy chest's whereas he, he would never make it to the toy shop shelf.
He knows the floor is not the worst place to be it's just the loneliest, he knows she is. He knows the shadows will start to whisper to you if you listen close enough, he knows, she knows how to.
They fill his head with bad thoughts that ended up driving her away along with his sanity. Her voice is like an omen because her quivering eyes and shouting and I hate you's only make his dick hard.
…
She's just a kid.
He used to hear her crying a lot, still young enough to not have to stretch her skinny arms unnaturally in order to wrap them around her small naked knees.
These days not so much, she lives in distractions, pretends the world of books are her own to call home and not this one, he does it too but he's been a wanderer chasing and he knows who she's fleeing from in their chapters.
Sometimes when she's imaginative and bored, he reads her adventures like stories. When she's fingering the walls as she walks, eyes closed. When mahogany wall panels in the hall become mossy smelling barks of ancient trees from in the rainforest they were stolen from, scratched and finger printed with the secrets of the house and of inhabitants past. The Tiffany chandeliers still hung pristine, like canopies of fresh green leaves or vines in a forest that catches the sunlight in their soft stained glass, even through the cracks in the boarded up windows. It's easy to pretend when it's dark and he follows her closely like a jungle cat with the heart of a kitten trapped in a monster's jaws. She knows he's there and smiles because it's easier to pretend she's not searching for him when he's following her because there really is nothing else better to do and eternity is all about circles like all things exhausting.
Truthfully, the childishness of her distractions is enough to startle him into acknowledging how painfully young she was when she died, when they 'made love' she had asked him if that's what it was or whether they were fucking, how quiet she had been when they finished, her thighs wet, sticky and shaking with new experience, her silence, breathless, eyes glassy, cleavage glossy with ghost sweat because human memories and feeling are what keep ghosts alive and feeling, sweating and cumming inside each other, loving and screaming even crying.
The more you feel the more present you are, it's possible to disappear but you have to concentrate and it almost takes years of practise, a practice he had almost mastered until she came along in her distasteful cardigans and Maxi dresses sporting a bowler hat, a love of macabre, eyes sinister enough to mirror what he saw in the eyeballs of his classmates over the barrel of a rifle closer to two decades ago.
She came here, dragging his former stimulant human self in the door with her and a whole new kind of energy shook his dead bones. Rattled his core from hello to go away. Eighteen years too early, too late including the two year gap when neither one existed, what was once so apparently simple, the only time they could be happy.
The ease of non existence is just too sweet a dream sometimes.
…
Sometimes she gets curious.
When she sees the rape child playing in the backyard next door a smile creeps onto her dead face.
"You enjoying that?" She asks when she's perched on top of the wall, bare legs swinging idly the skin of her heels hits the concrete continuously.
The boy is startled at first, like she's crept up on some slimy light sensitive critter in a bush shivering and feasting on its prey.
There's blood on his lips.
When he opens his mouth to lick them there's feathers and flesh caked into his infant white teeth which are painted a crimson that could easily be watermelon and pips if it weren't for the sparrow carcass in his small grubby hand, fingernails black with viscera. If he's anything like his dad he'd smile and he does, like a sparkly eyed Cheshire kitten. She's mildly repulsed when she notices he has her mom's nose, the same one she has and how easily he could be her own kid.
"Want some?" He offers cheeks blushing the same shade as his teeth. Because even a monster can appreciate a pretty girl like Violet. She's got the empty pill bottle to prove it.
"Nah I'm a vegetarian." She quips but the boy shrugs and wipes his mouth with his sleeve throwing the winged carcass into a nearby bush with a woody crackle.
"Are you gonna tell Constance?" He flashes her a smile.
"Wouldn't dream of it." She insists retrieving a battered box of cigarettes Hayden stole off one of her 'men' from her dress pocket and fingering one out, she pads her legs unsuccessfully for a lighter.
"You got a light kid?" Surprisingly he nods and runs all hip sway and ferocious arms like little boys do all the way into the house, returning moments later with a BBQ lighter.
"Grandma uses this when she's drunk."
"What's your name?" Violet awkwardly lights up and can't help but snort at the blood caked on his forehead, his hairline is too blonde almost white.
"Michael
"Cool."
"What's your name?"
"Violet." She rounds the o and pops the t.
"That's a pretty name." He smiles psychotically and she winks at him.
"Tryna get in my pants?" It's crude and he's too young but he smiles nonetheless with a blush as sweet as the blood red jam on his face.
"Where are your shoes?" He asks her and she remember she's in her bare feet looking more like a scruffy kid than she is.
"Can't find any."
"Do you live in there?" He nods to the LA Victorian behind her, pulling up his junior britches gruffly.
"Nah I just wander."
"Like the lost boys?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Are you sad?" He asks her and her breath hitches silently before she exhales.
"Sometimes."
"Me too." He mumbles kicking a pebble off the decking.
"What makes you sad?" She asks with scrunched eyelids.
"Mean girls, when Shane up the street steals my toy cars and my bicycle chain..."
"Bullies suck."
"Sometimes I wish I could die."
"Don't be stupid."
"Sorry."
"It's okay."
"I'm going to kill him Violet."
"Good." She exhales slowly her gaze never wavering off the boys brown eyes. For a moment she's looking at Tate's, how he could easily be her child. Another time another place, another world.
"I gotta go, nice talking you Violet."
"See ya soon."
It starts to rain then, for the first time in ages and she doesn't mind it because she can't feel the tears streaming down her cheeks.
…
She can be a monster too.
The smash of broken glass is not uncommon to the murder house residents.
Kids break in all the time to peacefully do meth off the back of their iphones and fuck sloppily in the many rooms.
Sometimes they have parties that consume only of a lone ipod dock and sweaters as pillows, the neck of one bottle of whiskey groped by passing hands in a circle, a lone nut bowl of pharmaceutical Skittles and M&Ms, Marijuana and it's tangy perfume cling for days after.
There's only so many fake identities Violet can make up in order to participate in social interaction, it's harder when it's the same kids, the same faces, same bullshit shitheads with no concept of self awareness spending the lonely hours of their adolescence reading Pitchfork and playing Minecraft.
Sometimes she doesn't bother, her answer is shut the fuck up when they ask who she is, sometimes she remains hidden, invisible and watching no more than a ghost, because she is.
A smash erupts again as an old window in the basement gives in, and male whispers mutter shit and snicker. Somewhere in the house her mom's baby is startled and Lorraine's girls are frightened and Thaddeus is licking his lips and there's no way these assholes are gonna die in this house.
"I got this one Mom."
So she waits, perched upon a beam in the basement, stripy socks and ripped Converse, legs swinging because ghosts are supposed to look scruffy and unkempt.
She watches the juvenile intruders walk beneath her feet in the darkness snickering and jerking around totally oblivious to the fact that there's a ghost above their heads.
That's the triviality of horror, people never look at it from the phantom's perspective, they just assume the ghost is evil and cunning when they really just want to be left alone and not intruded upon, prodded and pestered by Most Haunted crews with their bullshit fake noises and dodgy night vision cameras.
Violet can only remember once when such a film crew had been to the house, had stayed the night and left disappointed when none of the ghosts we're bothered to put on a show. Even in death one cannot escape the cruelties of mankind and sometimes she thinks this house might be the best place in the world.
It protects them from the outside, the 'horror show' as Tate calls it. This house is stern keeper, it tends to its ghosts ironically and unconditionally shows them their wildest dreams and nightmares.
Real ghosts would never offer humans the courtesy of a paranormal sighting that's why spooks drive people cray to suicide because sometimes there's nothing more frightening than staring at the bleak face of eternity and not even the living deserve that.
"What did you say?" The stalky one hisses when his toe stubs a crate.
"I said I think you're full of shit, Kyle!"
"I'm telling you bro, this house is haunted." The one called Kyle sasses, kicking over an old crate that makes a racket.
"Yeah, yeah." He mutters flicking his torchlight along the wall.
"Don't you know the story...?"
"What story?"
"About the phantom prostitute who lives here..." Kyle whispers.
Violet snorts from above rolling her eyes at how her ghostly antics are making a stir in the neighbourhood. Like person, like ghost.
"What now?"
"Yeah, several people said they've seen'er, a girl with long red hair standing at the gate in nothing but a black dress the silky kind chicks wear under those short dresses..."
"Sheer lingerie."
"Dude, that's gay, how do you even know that? "
"Eh, because I've had sex with Tina..."
"Still you shouldn't know the name...Anyway yeah this chick is supposed to be really pretty but really evil, like she leads men into this house, fucks them then slaughters them..."
"I watched a movie like that once..."
"Porn hub?"
"Nah bro, slut tube."
"Sounds kinda hot."
"Not if it's your dick she's hackin' "
"Obviously it's just made up, ghosts aren't real..."
In no mood to play Hayden's role of the murdering prostitute, Violet thinks about how she'll reveal herself to the intruders, how she'll make them run out of here screaming with piss soaking their jeans on both sides.
At first, she thinks about hanging herself from the beam she's sitting on, Virgin Suicide style but she's got no rope. She spots Thaddeus in the corner eyeing the boys intently with hunger but he retracts when she shoots him a glare.
"Don't." She warns him and only his Infantata self.
They can't hear her or see her.
Deciding to just get on with it, she drops from the beam ensuring she lands with a dense thud, but remains invisible.
Right behind the boys necks they almost shit themselves upon the impact of the noise.
"What the hell was that?"
"SHIT dude, let's get out of here..."
"No wait...let me record these sounds. We can make money..."
"NOW DAMNIT!"
"OKAY, OKAY."
The boys sprint for the basement door, sneakers thudding heavily on the old concrete stairs, but the latch locks just as the stalky one puts his hand on the knob.
He yanks it and fiddles but it doesn't budge, it's been locked from the outside.
The boys think it's a supernatural and it is, but it's not Violet she's nowhere near the basement door, there's another ghost in here, someone who wants to help her, wants to play peek-a-boo with the little shit heads as well.
The helper kicks the door from the outside, not hard enough to break it but loud enough to have them thinking something evil is on the other side trying to break into them.
Tate is her first presumption.
Scared shitless, the boys retreat back down the stairs flustered and confused and in need of exit.
When they sprint towards the window the entered, Violet's quick to slide her body across the floor tripping them both up to fall flat on their faces.
"Ommph" They moan with a dense thud as they pick up their stinging limbs. Violet winces and ignores the aches in her limbs the impact of the boys feet left, they'll be gone in a moment and she's glad Tate isn't here because he'd gut their throats with the smashed glass on the floor and watch them bleed to death for every bruise on her skin. She winces and cradles her shin.
"Laugh, it'll scare 'em shitless." The voice hisses, it isn't Tate but she doesn't recognise it either.
"No, fuck you!" She hisses lying back on the floor, inaudible to the blubbering teenage boys.
"Fine...I will." Violet knows the voice is female then for she emits the most ghostly girlish cackle one can muster that has the boys roaring crying in seconds.
Violet lies there listening to them blubbering and screaming as her mysterious helper lands them invisible fist blows to their faces that have them more petrified and stunned then they'll ever be in their lives.
"PLEASE, WE'LL LEAVE WE'RE SORRY! STOP!" screams the stout one, spit and snots and tears dribbling down his chin, the other one's on his knees praying and Violet wants to tell him not to bother, there's no favours in this house, you get what you're given.
"GET OUT!" The voice shrieks at the boys and for a moment Violet admires the ghosts acting skills. The last thing Violet hears is the scurry of the boys' sneakers as they scramble out the window they entered.
Violet's cut herself on the glass she slid her body across to trip the boys up, her sleeve is becoming rapidly soaked by the blood dripping from her hands, her eyelids flutter closed as she loses blood but it's okay because she'll just wake up in a minute or two anyway, no big deal.
And when she does, there's long read hair tickling her face, her body feels heavy and cement like until she realizes there's someone lying on top of her, giggling.
"Wakeywakey kiddo." Violet doesn't know if it's her smile or her poisonous green eyes but her first time seeing this face, so close.
For a moment she's stunned by the woman's beauty.
Tortured, because she's looking at the face of the creature her father chose over his family.
Her voice. She had recognised the voice as soon as she heard it but didn't want to hear it because it sounded just like she imagined.
Face to face with the woman, who tore her family apart, dragged them across the country here, into a bigger crock of shit then the one they started out in...
Together at last, even in death Violet couldn't escape meeting the woman who tore down her happiness and force fed her the paper balls, where they churn and nauseate the pits of her empty ghost stomach, the digested dregs of her past mortal life.
It's all too fucking convenient and it sucks. There's a hot anger in Violet's veins then, rippling, she's made, she hates this bitch, she's raging, she...
But Hayden kisses her then silencing her square on the lips and Violet's eyes widen when the red-headed harlot knots her fingers in Violet's blonde locks, matting them pink with the boy's blood still on her knuckles.
Hayden's lips are soft and tender not scaly and demonic like Violet expected, it's comfort kissing and Violet hasn't got a lot going for her in that department, she feels warm and safe and dizzy and doesn't know why the fuck she's kissing Hayden back but she is, she wants to, needs to inflict...
"Ouch!"
Hayden sits back nursing her split lip with her tongue from where Violet's bitten down on it, the blonde teenager stares up at her vindictively licking her licks.
Hayden smiles sultry and licks her lips again. "Well would you look at that two Harmon's willing to cheat for a slice of me..." Hayden slips a hand down Violet's skirt and palms Violet's folds.
"Ssssh just relax."
"Fuck you!" Violet pushes Hayden back, weakly though and Hayden takes it as an indication she doesn't really want her to get off.
"God your hot when you're mad little Harmon, feel like I'm kissing your daddy..."
"Get the fuck off me!" Violet wiggles and flails pressing her arms against the red heads chest, she rolls off beside Violet, propping herself up on a lone elbow.
"You're a little freak aren't you?" She purrs poking Violet in the chest with her index finger.
"You're sick, Hayden."
"You're no good Hayden, I know you bring men into this house to kill them, you're evil..."
"Tate helps me dump the bodies off property before they die, that's why you're mad. You jealous?"
"As if! I don't give a fuck what sick little antics you and Tate get up to!"
"Yes you do. Come on it's fun, I know you're horny, your panties are soaking, I felt it..."
"I hate you, what makes you think I'd fool around with you?" Violet sniffs standing off the dust her clothes down.
"You kissed me back."
"Yeah I wanted to rip off your slut lips!"
"Kinky." She quips, winking.
"I really hate you Hayden I mean it."
"We make a good team that was well played..." Hayden chimes.
"There's no 'we' here, we're nothing."
"You hate Tate and you fuck him..."
"I don't hate him. And I don't fuck him anymore."
"He raped your mom."
"You raped her heart!" Violet snaps.
"That was your dad's doing..." Hayden snaps.
"You both did!"
"What's it to you anyway you spoilt brat?"
"I ended up here because of you and you're still fucking here! Why don't you fuck off wherever your fetus went…"
"I'll tell your mom's dead baby you said hi, or maybe her rape child next door..."
"Go to hell."
"Already there babe, you and me both. It makes monsters of us all. Forgive and forget kid, it'll eat you."
And she's right, that's the thing.
…
Monsters can be kind too, even the littlest ones.
A week later, reminders that the outside world lives still holds her attention.
It's been raining again.
They're red and shiny and smooth rubber with factory made bows on either side, two single stitches holding the ribbon loops in their tiny place and it's the first time she's felt collectiveness in a while, if the shoe doth fit. She's been eyeing them for the past twenty minutes on the door step.
Like a lone feline peeping around from behind a door frame. If she was she'd twirl and rub herself against them, hair raised all purr and content.
From whatever trash can they've been picked out of, still crusted with the mud from Coachella they've been clomped and dragged through, whoevers piss, beer and vomit was mixed in with the organic brown silt. It barely rains here so it's not hard to guess which liquids pasted the sparse earth carpeted under thousands of underage feet.
Mud she'll never feel, things she'll never get to do like snort meth off the back of an iphone at a music festival or brand her mons pubis with somebody else's words of angst because that's what kids do when they haven't got their own problems and want to feel like they've been wronged by the world.
She's merely an old coil, a shed snake skin still down by the furnace in the basement where she shed it like cancer upon realisation that her boyfriend was not only a mass murderer but a rapist and that her first time had been nothing more than her mom's force fed sloppy seconds.
It's a contemporary to her corpse in the crawl space, these little bits of her scattered around the house, dwindling her down till she's nothing, not even matter, she's no more real or alive than her bones eating through her skin with the helpful nip of black flies and flesh eating babies called Thaddeus.
A hologram, a ghost of her former self.
The irony is astounding when the only real part of you is worm food and you stand and watch like stale air at what might have been, used to have been, before loving promises and butterfly kisses and sweat slicked bodies kneading and keeping secrets under musky smelling duvets became sleeping pills and bone chattering ice cold water, then this.
Eternity is only a concept when it's not reality and she hates every second of it because she knows it could be better if she'd let it be.
The boots bear a single note, a sticky Post-it covered in the messy scrawl of a child;
To Violet, from Michael.
It's probably a joke, he's cute, smart. They're filthy but the sentiment is genuine and she smiles when she finds a quarter and a packet of bubble gum in the foot of the left boot.
…...
Sometimes it's worth forgiving.
The pop smack of condensed air between her lips that sounds her presence. She's not playing hide and go fuck yourself and it hasn't been an eternity - like she said it would, she said lots of things, some of them hurt some didn't but she's not here to pull scabs, maybe to feel the groves of their rugged caps instead.
The white cracked musky paint of the ancient window panes doesn't shed a flake when she closes the rusty wooden door. It's darker, today especially because there's a rare overcast but not too much, the glass is enough to illuminate her. She chews on her bubble gum softly, beautifully, without opening her lips.
Her hair is wet and stringy, saturated like a bastard kitten who's escaped the execution bucket, the dirtiest shade of sweet smelling blonde and long, unlike her legs but they were strong and slender, they left bruises on his hips that would be gone by the time he'd pull out of her, sticky white strings of mutual adoration connecting them.
She's a tidy girl.
She'd always used a tissue to wipe the insides of her thighs like she was cleaning boogars or finishing a meal.
She said she never liked the taste much but was always a good sport for under duvet swap-meet.
Sometimes she'd leave it there, the mess he always left between her legs, her cheeks would turn the colour of blood red jam, jam as sweet as her angry tears, tears of passion, loneliness, sweet as she always tasted when she'd get off on his nose, small fingers messaging his scalp while he licked her clean.
It's called team work and they'd snigger for ages, naked and warm, legs tangled and the love in her post orgasm eyes was always astronomical, unconditional like you'd think. She said, she said, never meant it.
He wades out of his subconscious theatre midway through a showing of nostalgia like the theatre's been flushed with liquid reality, it only takes one word from her mouth. The sound of her voice dresses his memories of her up in yesterday's clothes so they're fresher than last week, last month, last year; it goes on like that...
"What?" She says long and slow.
He involuntarily sniffs a chuckle. He doesn't even move out of his languorous sprawl, lounging on three old sacks of compost beneath his back.
She changes a lot, or so he thinks, knows she doesn't, hasn't, because she's dead. The little things he misses about her are mere memories few and far between clear as the sunlight illuminating her now a pietas too pure for him, for this purgatory.
How high her lip curls when she smiles always showing a little too much gum, her perfect white teeth, she had her braces taken off a while before she moved here.
He had been lucky to have been born with an astute dental alignment that required no more dentistry than the odd childhood filling so he used to watch her from the bed in boy shorts and a Bruce Springsteen tee as she put in her god awful retainer nightly, swearing lightly in the process before she went to bed. When he'd ask her in the blue dark what it's like to kiss with that thing' she'd give him the stink eye before they wrapped up in each other for the night.
How for only him and his benefit she used to mouth words to movies on long afternoons in an exaggerated Boston accent she did not possess naturally.
How she'd laugh with the full use of her shoulders, her potty mouth and sparkly eyes, how she used to press her sweaty forehead beneath his chin when she came, just beside his windpipe, hitching his breath just a little bit.
She hasn't moved forward, nor have his eyes from the sentence he stopped at.
She rolls her eyes and mutters something about him being a shithead when he gives her the once over, so she ignores him, finds an old work bench to sit on, a draining board beside a crusty old sink that was once used for plant watering because there's no counter-space to sit.
He recasts his eyes down onto the works of Barrie's own Peter Pan because at least when she's taking the piss out of him he knows she's not sad and her jeer is preferred to the silence that lets him know she is and she is sad, it's easier to pretend she isn't, for him too.
She doesn't want him to feel sorry for her. She's hoping whatever they had will dwindle like memories of her mortal life; in time, but it won't. What do you do once time heals, if it does? It's beyond her, beyond the thin walls of this cozy shack, covered in ivy and vines the inside, completely hidden from the outside.
"Geez, place is like a fucking steam room."
"I like it." He does. He's always liked the LA heat the more the better, she hated the heat or so she said.
"What'cha reading?" She asks with another lip smack and a chew.
"Peter Pan."
She smiles, weakly.
"That book's depressing."
She admits with a sniff.
"Wendy should have stayed." He murmurs. "I mean what's the point anyway she was just gonna grow up and get married and live a boring life?"
"I kinda envy her actually. Because she's wise. She got it both ways."
"She left paradise."
"Not really..."
"She left and Peter chose Neverland over Wendy; he chose to always stay a boy, rather than to be with her..."
"Maybe it was for the best. He let her go, Tate, she made a choice because she had the chance to."
"Would you have chosen differently, if you could?" He asks honestly because they both know they're not talking about story books anymore.
"No." Her voice is small but affirmative.
"Why?"
"Because, that's the concept. He'll always be in here..." She presses putting a finger to her temple. "That's why they call it Neverland, because you can never fucking leave..."
Eyes wide, there's mischief in her voice because he doesn't know if she's just taking jibes at him or just letting her inner child loose.
He can't decipher the look on her face, her eyes are wide and sharp like she's about to say something sardonic but her mouth is too small with sadness and there's probably tears rolling back their somewhere, she swallows always like a good frosty girl. The heat has nothing on her.
"Well I'm not exactly going to grow up anytime soon." She offers him a smile.
"Is that supposed to mean I should make it up to you."
"Maybe."
"You don't like it when I try."
"No."
"And you have by the way." He adds.
"What?"
"Grown up. I can see it in you. You're older on the inside."
His smile is too sweet, prideful without agenda and it's hard to remember why she hates him.
Removing her gum she sticks it to her knee cap, slick and chewed up and pink. It's only when she starts swinging her legs does he notice she's wearing bright red wellington boots a size to big by the looks of it.
Her calves are too skinny for them and it looks like it could easily be her arms wearing them. He watches her kneecaps bunch and crinkle on the way forward but they smooth out and point when she swings her calves back under the bench, heels hitting the wood.
Forward and back, forward and back.
She lights a cigarette and looks straight into the head of the smoldering shrub case, twirls it twice before popping it in her mouth.
"This place is nice."
"Yeah."
"Thanks for telling me about it." She says sarcastically because he didn't, never mentioned it.
"You never asked."
"I get it, I'd stay away from me too probably I'm not very nice." She grins through a haze of smoke.
"S'not like that. I just like the quiet."
"Is this like one of those places that only appears sometimes like in Lost and shit?"
"What?"
"Nevermind."
"I know the show, Chad and Patrick used to watch it." Tate mumbles.
"Chad..." She shakes her head. "He's alright, bit of a fucking stereotype, but he has personality, the other's ones dry as board." She exhales a smoky stream of toxins.
"He probably wants to blow your dad."
"Yeah."
For a moment they both smile but it doesn't last long.
"I've never noticed this place before. I notice everything." She admits looking up at the sky glass, grey this afternoon.
"I know."
"Except when it comes to you."
"That why you avoid me?"
"My parents hate you."
"Like you give a shit what your parents think. You never did."
"..."
"Besides s'not what I asked."
"Who the fuck are you to demand answers to questions...?" She exhales furiously.
"I never meant to hurt you..."
"Thanks a fucking heap!"
"Why are you here?" He closes the book, he hasn't been reading it for the past seven minutes anyway.
She doesn't have an answer, they both know though. She slides down off the bench.
"Uncomfortable?"
"Yeah." She knows he doesn't mean the bench, not really.
"You can sit here if you want..." he offers hopefully, scooting over to the right side of the makeshift organic bean bag.
She looks at the empty space for a moment before she seats herself beside him, stretching her legs out and crossing her ankles, the rubber on the boots squeaks.
"Nice boots."
"What?"
"Boots. You thought I said boobs?"
"No."
"They're nice too."
"So you say."
"You're beautiful."
"Am I?"
"Dumb question."
"Whatever..." She shrugs, inhales a drag of her cigarette and watches him on the exhale as he picks the wet gum off her knee where it leaves a clean mark amidst the dust.
He pops it in his mouth before lounging back and opening his book leaving her sitting up alone to stare at the door, for a moment she's transported back to the beach that night on Halloween.
She lies back eventually and watches him read, the pages flick past illustrations and font, how his eyelids flicker as his eyeballs travel across the page and back again, He's chewing her gum.
"Hey..." She smirks with a croak because it would be just like her to classify this a theft, it's also a reason to talk to him.
"Finders keepers." He grins chewing annoyingly loud.
"Gross." She yawns, pulling his arm around her.
"That's what she said." He mutters turning a page with a glimpse of his thumb ring before it joins is hand back behind his head, Violet's lying on his other arm and she laughs at the few modern day idioms he's picked up.
"Did I use it right?" He smirks a little too close to her hair, his breath sends a lone shiver down her spine.
"Yeah." She snuggles into his armpit, only realising after that she did it. Her eyes widen and she shifts.
"You don't have to move."
"I know." She stays where she is.
"Can I have my gum?"
"Sure" He smiles playfully but doesn't open his mouth.
She rests her cigarette in her other hand, brings her finger up slowly to brush the light blonde stubble on his chin, fingers his lip.
"Open."
He does and she sticks her finger in feeling around its heat. She locates it somewhere between his teeth and cheek, pulling out she winces when his teeth close on her fingers. He flicks his tongue off her finger and she ignores the hot flutter her sex gives, how the rain isn't the only thing that's soaking her panties.
"Ouch."
He opens his mouth almost mechanically, slowly and releases her fingers with a suck. Chopsticked in between her index and middle finger is fruity lump of pink gum and it drags a clear string of his saliva with it.
Placing her fingers in her mouth, he watches as she sucks it off her fingers slowly, her lips feeling the teeth marks on her skin drawing them out with a pop, her teeth find purchase on the gum and she chews with a satisfied smirk.
He looks at her as though he's about to speak. There's spit on her chin, his spit.
She watches his lips twitch with indifference, inhales and holds the last drag of her cigarette in her throat. It phantoms there as the gradual depletion of oxygen in her brain drags an afterthought out of reachful perception.
She's stupefied for only a moment when he leans in and presses his lips against hers gingerly, his hot tongue coating her chin with a second layer in an effort to remove the first one.
The throbbing in her cunt eventually releases her thoughts and shit starts to swim again, her thoughts wade inside her head and they're all of him inside her. The heat on the glass house doesn't help, she can feel the sweat on the nape of her neck from the added heat of his arm, his sleeve is damp as her briefs.
"Tate..." She breathes, hoarsely and her anguish sounds like rejection because it's a while since he's heard her say his name and it cuts through him like nails, the disappointment of having to jerk off alone when she leaves with only the faint taste of her tobacco and cherry spit on the roof of his mouth.
"I'm sorry..." He apologizes, more to himself.
"No."
"What?"
"I want to." She sits up, gaze never wavering.
"Do it?" He knows that's why she's here but doesn't want her to think that's why he's asking, doesn't wanna give her a reason to leave.
"Nooo plant some seeds in a pot."
"Same difference..." He smirks down playing the throbbing in his jeans.
"Forget it." She tuts standing up to brush the silt off her ruddy dress.
"Violet wait..." He reaches out to her, grabs the front of her boots and turning her around to face him. It's an awkward manoeuvre and his book falls to the ground with a thud wrinkling and bending it from the inside out.
"Come here..." He whispers, and she does, she always does like a lost cause puppy.
Taking her by the hand he shifts into a seating position pulling her down too, she kneels, her knees either side of his thighs, ass cheeks over his knees she leans back onto her calves. Her hands up his forearms as he grips her bare thighs, hoisting her onto the seat of his lap where she belongs. He laces his fingers with hers, placing them over his heart so she can feel it beat wildly for her. He leans into her then, kisses her neck softly, nipping as she lulls her head back, he moves sheets of her damp hair off her pretty shoulders so he can kiss them.
Tightening his grip on her hand they linger there before he pushes her small hand down, down his torso to his jeans and against his erection, the scratch of his zipper on her palm, so she feels how much he wants her, presses his lips right against her ear, "You have no idea how much, Violet..."
Somewhere in her head there's a drum solo and circuit boards exploding tunes. The sound of her name tickles when he kisses over the hollow of her auditory, breath rugged, her own shivers in her throat as she struggles to exhale steadily, her heart is erratic.
"Violet..."
He murmurs, mouth pressed to her ear hands pulling her down by the thighs, welding her to his hard on. She recoils slightly and hunches instead, bending her knees she presses feet flat, eyes glistening and watery, she swallows before cupping his cheeks and kissing him long and hard. He kneads her pert form through the ruffles of her dress, his hands grip her hips and trail upwards, fingers tracing the outline of her small waist, squeezing tightly. His fingers spread over her small cleavage, moving out he hitches her straps down softly, his fingertips never leaning her arms her breasts on full display pale and little and rosy nipples, they're not short of a sparkle in the impending sunlight.
When he lifts her dress back over her head she shivers naked as her sweat cools, she wraps her slender fingers around his wrists while he kneads and kisses her chest like she's pure sugar her panty less cunt wet, baby fur on his thigh, sliding.
She grips his hands tighter, her fingers airily following the skin- coloured venous grooves on his hands, her nails leave white scrapes down his forearms she wraps them around his elbow joints tightly, pushes his arms off her body, welding her red mouth onto his, their fingers laced.
As they slide and tip sideways, he brings and arm up to grip her soft ass, cups her hand he still has inside his, and presses only his knuckles against the concrete ground in an effort to sit them up straight, her ass cheeks bunch beneath his palm on impact before her lower back has a chance to adjust.
She's so very naked and straddling his lap and when he brings his hands up to appreciate her she moves on her hunches, slaps her muddy soles flat onto his hands pinning them to the sharp concrete either side of him.
She gets to work on his belt with antsy fingers, her tight, flat, delicate abdomen quivers, in its elastic creases, the underside of her crouch as she tries to search for the core muscle strength to kiss him and keep her feet pressed against his hands simultaneously. Lumbricals sandwiched, her rubber soles pin his to the concrete, his hands are stinging.
"Violet, what are you trying to do?" He breathes, amused. She isn't.
Only because if he touches her skin she just might tip over the edge and if he catches on she knows he'll push her without hesitation and she'll be his again just like that...
"Violet, stop." He whispers and she does, looks at him dazed, anguished.
"I..."
"Can I have my hands back?" He chuckles looking down. She removes her feet falling onto the length of his thighs flat on her butt.
"Sorry..." she smiles shyly and blinks back a rebel tear from the dream pool of her lower left lid.
"Hey, you gonna cry during?...Please don't Violet." He laughs lightly, soothingly, and rubs her back smiling warmly he plants a kiss on her shoulder blade.
"No..."
She rubs her eyes shaking her head smiling at his stupid dimples, leans back so he can shrug his boxers off down to his calves where his jeans are. His cock bobs back freely, along his trail of pubes full and heavy towards his navel and her guts coil with lust and she realises she could of had this anytime if she wanted but she knows things always feel new when you haven't had them in ages.
"You taste like fruity tobacco."
"Nice?"
"Different."
He informs her when his tongue finds her forgotten gum lodged in the bottom corner of her mouth, he licks it up off the wetter inside of her cheek and takes it into his own mouth.
"Did you know you can get strawberry cigarettes?" She mumbles, eyeballs twitching, too close to his face to drink in a focused vision of his features and how beautiful his face is, it really is. His lips are sealed so he can smile and munch at the same time.
"Really? here?" He asks, stroking his dick, watching as she places her thumbs over lips, touching at the centre she slowly draws them apart thumbing the outline of his top lip adoringly.
"Mhhmm" She mewls, with a goofy grin when he playfully taps his shaft against her thigh, leaning her head back while he goes about pressing gum bubbles down her windpipe, the chicle sacks leave a trail of wet stamps on the skin there.
He gets a finger inside her first, then two hooking and flicking her slickness, stroking the grunts and moans out of her, circling the rim of her folds, she begins to jerk and buck on his knuckles, breasts pressing and flattening against his chest he's glass, he places a hand on her chest and one behind pushing her down onto her back.
He wants to get her soaked because he knows how to go about it and he likes how it cools on her thighs and wets his pelvis while he's pumping into her.
"No."
It's no more than a laboured groan, still rocking and canting, contracting on his fingers, she gripes in protest the lean arm of the hands that are flat against her breasts.
"What?" He murmurs clearing his throat, eyelids scrunched.
"I'm wet enough." She smiles.
"That bad huh?" He purrs, pulling her back to him.
"All day." She wraps her thighs around his torso.
"All night?"
"Yeah."
"Me too." He agrees.
"I just I missed you...I wanna feel it again, in me." Her confession is a lodged croak in her throat, she wraps her arms around his neck, pressing her breasts firmly against his chest, she plants a chaste kiss to his shoulder, lips coated in perspiration from her philtrum.
"Please."
"I'm right beneath you Vi..."
He murmurs against the crook of her jaw, nipping softly the clammy skin of her neck. Gripping one of her shaking thighs pushing her down her folds meet the tip of his cock before they swallow the fingers he's using to position himself under her opening.
She sinks the rest of the way down and he ruts up instinctively, moves through her folds and deep into her velvet heat.
She can only gasp when he slides fully inside stretching her right the way through, he ruts up into her swiftly hitting her cervix that makes her belly button twinge and her muscles clench around his throbbing organ.
His memory underestimated how good she feels, how tight and young and how her never becoming a fully grown woman let's his dick feel every wet groove of her soft walls like a glove, how them like this, never growing up is the second best feeling in the world to the inside of her cunt.
"Tate..?" She hisses, full to the hilt with his cock, throbbing and clenching.
"What's wrong?" He groans with a thrust, a murmur lodged in his throat.
"It's too much..."
"There's not enough of you."
"Compliment, Tate..."
"So was that..."
"I know."
"You've had it before, more than once."
"I know I just forgot."
"D'ya want me to take it out?"
"Don't be stupid..." She laughs against his lips, licking into his mouth, she cants forward onto him, abdomen moving like a ripple.
She rides him with slick syncopated jerks, she hugs his neck, breasts heaving and panting while he lays his head back in subservience, lets her find a rhythm that's comfortable for her because he's polite like that and happy to watch her small tits bounce in the sunlight, stripped with shadows from the breaks in the glass windows surrounding them.
Her hair looks almost white, no longer wet but damp and tousled and perfect, always she can never not be to him. While she's moaning and bobbing around astride him there's a burn that's slow like he needs a piss but he doesn't and it builds with every move she makes, ass cheeks slapping and slapping again against the tops of his thighs.
"Ta... T-Tate..." She hisses, breathless and slicked with sweat.
"What?"
"Can I go on the bottom?"
His manoeuvre is swift, without pulling out of her, he wraps an arm around her waist and she's already on her back, the words barely out of her mouth then she asks. The sacks of peat give a hiss of air release beneath her back, knees pressed against his shoulders he pulls off those ridiculous boots and she wiggles her free toes, smiles at him and opens her mouth flashing him a glimpse of the gum ball a more faint over chewed pink, he hadn't even noticed her taking it back.
Her gaze is sultry and up through her eyelashes, he smiles and picks it off her tongue as he slips his dick back inside her wetness with a giggle from her lips and it feels like entering a warm shower in a cold bathroom despite the heat.
He pumps into her faster and faster, huffing and chewing gum while she moans and rubs the heel of her foot off the back of his calf. Her feet have always been dainty but strong like a pseudo ballerina's, small toes square nails painted a bright lime or sticky red like sweet lumps of lokum she'd never let him suck because she's a prude for foot fetishes.
"Shit, fuck, Tate...Ahh." She swears and throws her head back, missing a shot at boiling over in ecstasy because coming takes concentration, her ache is a simmer again, he notices this himself, somewhere on the verge of exploding inside her.
"Hold on baby..."
She complies, rakes his arms with her nails filled with grit from scratching against the concrete under his weight.
She meets him for a kiss as she slips a soft hand down to play with her clit while he pumps her hard, smiling, he's ecstatic to be back where he belongs every hot hard inch surrounded by her moisture.
She kisses at his mouth moaning for him as he balloons a bubble of organic latex out through his lips in a perfect round sack of tooty-fruity air, presses it against her swollen lips, as he penetrates her harder and faster until she's flailing.
Smiling, the curl of her top lip reveals the brilliant white of her teeth against her gums, she licks, she bites at it messily, teeth missing and nipping his lip when he slams into her again suddenly.
It pops then, just as she comes hard around him, clenching, she jerks up and he spills hot and sticky inside her with a grunt, her hips twitch as she rides out her orgasm, pinches his calves hard with her toes, mushes her mouth onto his, onto the splat of gum on his lips, attaching them, sticky as his warm cum inside her.
He catches his breath as the tremors in his tendons dull and contract into a small ball of satisfaction.
When she stops wriggling and riding out every last morsel of her nerve endings he pulls out limp and sated tingling from head to toe, collapses on top of her gently as he can, sweaty and heaving.
"Hey Tate?" She whispers.
"Yeah?"
"Tate?
"What?" He pants.
"Hi."
She laughs adorable all flustered and smiley beneath him. There's gum still stuck to his lips and she gets busy at removing it, takes his bottom lip in her teeth and starts to suck and scrape, he groans into her mouth, her hands are shaking it's all spontaneous and exciting.
When he's all clean she removes the gum ball from her mouth and flings it into a corner where it hits something made of tin with a ping.
He dozes briefly, head on her breasts while she fingers his scalp, the dulling thud of her heartbeat like soft rocking boats on a flat night time lake, missing each other by an inch each sway connecting ropes tethered.
He ponders times when she made him happy, back when he was a promising mystery to her, a tangible happiness once upon a time, she yearned for him as if he would appear at her window overlooking the Thames as Peter in jeans and Converse, scratchy sweaters in the blue dark of early morning.
Sometimes he's Peter, sometimes she's Wendy, sometimes she's Peter too and when he whispers to her how he wishes he could make her as happy as she makes him, she tells him she is because paradise is what you make of it.
A/N I am working on About a Girl, honestly I wont be updating until after my exams but once the summer comes I'll be uploading lots and lots :) I think you'll like the next chapter it's all about discovery, sadness and new alliances if that makes sense ...XD