NOTE: Contains mature content. Discretion advised!
He was determined—not just to make her feel something again, but to make her his once and for all.
Yes, he had his way with her sister, but she would never know. Not ever, so he thought.
Amy took it as an opportunity to feel again, even if it meant feeling the pain of heartbreak afterwards. As she lay naked beneath him, she felt his warm breath and feverish, trembling lips exploring the side of her neck, she gently placed her gloved hands on his shoulders. When he was removing her dress, she had told him that she needed them on for safety sake. He was confused, but didn't care either way as his knees planted themselves on the mattress while worshipping her with kisses.
Only a few soft moans escaped her lips as he moved lower, gently fondling her large, full rounds as he ran his tongue over each nipple. Michael was surprised at her reactions; something had definitely changed in the way she felt when he touched her. However, he kept at it as she let out stifled moans of contentment. When he finally decided to move lower, he gently blew on her pale skin as he felt her arching against him. His lips kissed painfully slowly from her navel all the way down to the mound above her womanhood, caressing her thighs and hips as he situated himself between her legs and gently trailed his tongue over her.
"Mm…" she moaned silently.
He took two fingers, rubbing up and down softly as her dripping, pale pink lips deposited her sweet-tasting nectar on him, sliding them inside her as he watched Amy gasp with a smile hidden in her parted lips.
"Ah…" she gasped. "M-Michael…"
"Feel good, don't it?" he asked, biting his lower lip before leaning down to gently flick his tongue against where she needed it most. Now she was moaning louder, feeling his lips giving her little sensitive nub a gentle suck. He was working his fingers in and out, driving her wild as her hips bucked against his face gently. Strangely enough, he could not tell if she had reached a climax or not, simply because there were no concluding noises indicating so.
When he positioned the tip of his hard, throbbing length to her entrance, he looked down into Amy's murky blue eyes for reassurance before sliding himself into her. She let out a moan, tossing her head back as she felt her walls tightening around him. Michael bit his lower lip, panting excessively in pleasure as a film of sweat formed on his skin. He found himself losing control, lost in her depths as he delved deeper and drowned. He glanced down to see that Amy had shut her eyes, tossing her head back as she was on the verge of climax. He held back just so she could feel what he promised her; soon after, he spurt his thick, white ropes of warm cum inside her, burying his face in the crook of her neck.
As Amy felt its warmth linger on inside her, he pulled out and lay back on the bed next to her, rubbing his face with his hands before rolling her over to lie on his chest. Amy's ear was pressed right above his beating heart; the raw sign of life, the one vital sign that united all living things, fabled to be the host of all emotions. It sounded rapid, beating against his ribcage as it rose and fell in sync with his breathing. Even though she had a heart beating within her as well, she still felt dead. However, hearing his heartbeat and his first words after the fact, she couldn't help but ponder on her thoughts.
"Amy," he said, holding her gently. "I love you."
A moment of silence before giving her response, thinking clearly of her words before saying them.
"I feel something…" she muttered, loud enough for him to hear, "I…think…I do love you, Michael."
"Y-You do?" he asked, looking down at her and caressing her chin-length, uneven bob of curls.
"I'm sorry it took me so long to catch up," Amy sighed. "I…guess I was afraid of you. Now, I realize we are both connected with death."
"You don't know how long I've waited for you to say that," he smirked, laughing a little bit to express his joy. "Will you be my girl?"
He looked down and saw her making steady eye contact with him, nodding slowly with a smile hidden in her closed lips. No words were needed—the look in her dead-looking eyes said it all.
Meanwhile, Clara stayed up late at night in her bedroom with her record player on a low volume setting. For two hours, she had been worried about the whereabouts of Amy—she seemed to have just up and left. Where could she have possibly been at that time of night? Was she exercising her necrotizing powers on innocent people in the bustling streets of downtown L.A? Or was she seeking solace in a place Clara herself did not know about?
Either way, the worry was making her sick to her stomach. A headache had already begun to attack her head, and once she felt the sudden need to throw up, she ran to the bathroom down the hall and let it all out, greenish-yellow chunks of undigested food falling into the toilet. With the sharp, unpleasant taste in her mouth, Clara whined and held her stomach, hearing light footsteps and feeling the presence of someone kneeling behind her to pull her long, raven-colored hair out of the way.
"Min kära," a familiar voice crooned. "What is wrong?"
"I…uh…" Clara took a break from speaking to spit out the disgusting taste of the stomach contents that made their way up and out. "I suddenly…ew…this is gross."
"Suddenly what?" the century-old woman asked. "What have you eaten?"
"I don't know…I…just started puking…" Clara whined. "This is gross. Get me a mint, please?"
"Nei, I think you should rest yourself. Here," the petite Swede commanded, standing up and extending her hand to her great-granddaughter as Clara accepted it, reaching to flush the toilet before following Britta back to her bedroom.
The young witch stumbled slightly until she walked into her room, reaching her bed with the woman's help. Britta propped the pillows up and helped her lay back, sitting on the edge as she looked down at her. Clara looked up at her ageless great-grandmother, her lovely, youthful face freckled on the bridge of her nose, her golden hair loose and flowing down her back and over her shoulders, and her peridot-green eyes looking down at her affectionately.
"Rest," she said. "Alright?"
"I don't know why I'm so sick," Clara replied weakly. "I think I'm worried. Amy's gone. I don't know where she went…I—"
"Do not worry too much," Britta said. "Amy will return soon."
"You know where she went?" the young witch asked in shock.
"Ja," Britta answered. "She is alright. She sensed death. She is working on finding the source. She will be back."
"But what if she never does?!" Clara exclaimed nervously. "She could be anywhere! We have to find her! She's going to—"
"She will be alright, Clara," the Swede reassured, silencing the young witch with her sheer willpower alone. "You worry for your sister too much, too much to focus on you. You have sacrificed much for her, even your life once. Rest. You are ill. If you need me, I am down the stairs."
As Britta got up and walked toward the door, Clara watched her close it as she listened to the faint music in the background. She had been playing a Beatles album before Fleetwood Mac, listening to the spellbinding, legendary lyrics as she tried to make herself comfortable on her bed:
"Time casts a spell on you, but you won't forget me…
I know I could have loved you, but you would not let me…
I'll follow you down til' the sound of my voice will haunt you…
You'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you…"
CRREAAAKKK…
Clara's eyes jerked open slightly at the sound of her creaking door, watching it open by itself to reveal a figure wearing a dark green striped sweatshirt, dark-washed denim jeans, and worn Converse sneakers with his dark chocolate eyes staring deviantly at her as she lay in her bed. The witch sat up, looking weakly at the figure in the doorway and identifying him in the short distance.
"Tate?" Clara was indeed shocked, but the ghost walked a few steps forward and placed his hands in his front pockets.
"Long time no see," he said blankly.
"Thank gosh," the witch said, her voice unusually vindictive for someone of her nature.
"You don't sound very forgiving," Tate replied. "I thought maybe you'd be nicer to me, considering you're the good sister."
How could he have said such a thing? After all he had done, including pushing her sister over the top story railing to her death below, how could he have thought such a notion? Sure, Amy was resurrected, but it wasn't the point.
"Are you kidding me, Tate?" Clara asked forcefully, sitting up and looking at him directly with her clear blue eyes. "You killed my sister! Do you really think I'd let that slide?!"
"I don't know, would you?" the teenager's ghost asked. "She's alive anyways. I saw you bring her back."
Clara just stared at him long and hard before saying anything else, but before she could speak, the killer ghost kept his composure and cut in.
"Yeah, I did," he repeated. "You and that other one did."
"Leave Britta out of this," Clara requested assertively. "In fact, please leave. I'm sick and I'm not going to tolerate seeing you here."
"Why can't you and Amy just forgive me?" he questioned suspiciously. "We can move on and pretend this never happened. She's alive again, and that's all that matters."
"It's not the point!" Clara exclaimed, jerking up slightly and making fierce eye contact with the ghost. "She's not the same! Can't you see that?! The poor girl doesn't even have a will to live. I'm lucky if I get her to smile once a week!" She paused and took a deep breath before talking anymore. "I…miss her. You know, the Amy I knew. I know, she was very bitchy and self-entitled, but I miss that. That was her. I didn't like that she went out partying and neglected her schoolwork just to get drunk with her friends. I wanted to wring her neck half the time, but I still loved her. I still do, too, but because of what you did, Tate, I can never have my sister back again."
Tate looked remorseless; he was silent and his expressionless face was unwavering as Clara explained to him how she really felt. He squirmed slightly and shrugged.
"Well, it's a filthy goddamn world we live in," he finally said, sighing. "There's so much pain. It corners you wherever you go. There's no escaping it."
"Tate," Clara began, "it isn't the point that I resurrected my sister. I usually forgive people, not to let something slide, but so that I don't have a grudge to hold against someone. To me, that's the worst thing."
"I'm very sorry," he sighed. "Do you forgive me?"
"It'll take some time," Clara said. "Amy is the one you should be apologizing to. Then again, I think we would agree that Violet leaving you again was the best punishment you could have faced."
Tate just looked at her, a stern expression on his face as she continued bluntly.
"Better than any hex or curse could."
"I'm dead," Tate said. "Why waste your time?"
"I wouldn't," Clara stated, "because I'm better than to stoop to your level."
"Hm, well then." The teenaged ghost walked away toward the door of her bedroom. Suddenly, he glanced back at her intensely enough to catch her attention.
"If you're considering forgiving me," he began, "you may also want to consider bringing some of us back, too."
As he shut the door, Clara felt frightened. She bit her lower lip as she felt the nausea hit her where it did most. She turned to lie on her side, pulling her knees to her chest as she tried to breathe away the pain.
As the sun began to rise, Violet stood on the front steps, her honey-brown eyes looking out on both sides of the street. Turning to her left, she saw the stone driveway that had been without a car since Cordelia left the property, draped gracefully by the shadow of the green, full-canopied tree standing near the outer edge of the property.
Looking to her right, she gasped at the sight of an eerie figure in a strapless black corset dress with layers of raven, frilly crinoline, the sound of heels hitting the concrete sidewalk as the figure walked. Her face became clearer, and Violet recognized short, blonde corkscrew curls hanging unevenly from the crown of her head. Her pallor was also striking, and as she made her way down the stone pathway up to the steps, she noticed that it was Amy.
"W-Where have you been?" the ghost asked.
"Out."
"Where?" Violet repeated.
"At Michael's," Amy finally said, taking a seat on the top step with the ghost doing the same.
"What happened there?" the ghost questioned as she pulled the front of her dark red cardigan closer.
"I sensed death," the witch replied somberly. "As soon as I walk in, he asks how I got in. Obviously he left his door unlocked. Not very smart for a murder, I'll say."
"Wait, murder?" Violet asked in shock, touching the crease of Amy's elbow. The witch flinched, but took a quiet sigh and continued to explain.
"He killed his grandma," the witch replied.
"Constance? What?" Violet asked with her eyebrows raised in shock.
"J-Just listen," Amy instructed. "I basically walked in only to find him slicing up her body. I asked how he killed her. Apparently it was cyanide. I wonder how he got his hands on it."
"He's the anti-Christ," the ghost said. "He can get anything."
"Now you're just talking foolish," Amy scoffed slightly. "There's no such thing."
"But you're a witch, right? Normally I'd say there's no such thing as witches, but since meeting you, I believe otherwise," Violet said. "When you met Michael, how did you feel?"
"I don't remember," the blonde witch recalled, leaning forward with her eyes toward the purple and orange sunrise. "Ever since I came back, I don't feel anything. Maybe…except for last night."
"You and him…uh…did you—"
"Yes, we did," Amy replied, "and it wasn't the first time. The first time, he was very rough with me."
"Did it hurt you?" Violet questioned.
"No," Amy said. "I had done it many times before. Just…not like that."
"I see," the ghost said, standing up and looking down at the witch. It took a few minutes until Amy followed suit, and she smoothed her skirt out and looked into Violet's lovely honey-brown eyes as she spoke again. "We should be going in now. Clara's been worried sick."
A/N:
So now we have one more lemon with Amy and Michael, and then some speculations about Clara, as well as tensions between her and Tate. Apparently he wants to be brought back, but is it possible? And what will he do when (or if) she refuses?
And some more Amy x Violet moments! ;3 Yippee!
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