♥ blondetate wrote la petite mort 1/2 for sothereyougo
Title: la petite mort 1/2
Author: blondetate
Summary: Boston, where the leaves change and the seasons are different. The city seems like heaven to him. And every heaven has angels, don't they?
Spoilers/Warning/Triggers: Language, brief mentions of murder and death, sexual situations (between a minor and an adult)
Author Notes: AU. The title means little death in french, which is a metaphor for orgasm. I really liked the prompt, which was to write an older Violet with a younger Tate, and it was especially fun because I had been playing around with a similar idea for ages before I even got the prompt. I had originally said I would write this in second POV, but ugh... I guess I'm fickle? I don't usually write in first person POV, but I did now. The writing style is still not exactly common though, because I did a thing with conversations, you'll see. Also, I'm curious who you guys could imagine as a 45 years old Violet. Personally, I went with Vera Farmiga but I'm open to other suggestions if you have any?
la petite mort
There's something ironic about meeting your father again after thirteen years at your mother's funeral. What's that saying about a door closing, another opening? Except I wish that both damn doors just closed.
There is no part of me which longs to go to Boston with my... Dad, but since I'm not of legal age yet, there is little I can do. I comfort myself by repeating over and over again that it can only be better than living with the Cocksucker, and if I could handle seventeen years by her side, I can handle one more by my father's. He doesn't look like he really cares about me anyway, so perhaps I can just get by on my own, unnoticed, while he continues living his life as if I was not there. I have no idea what he does for a living because I haven't heard of him since I was four, but judging by the way he dresses and talks, and the way he carries himself, I'd wager he's a business man. Hopefully the kind who is never home. It would certainly benefit me.
He's obviously impatient to leave my mother's memorial service and I can't say I blame him. My stuff is already packed and waiting in the car, and as much as I'm not looking forward to living with him, I am excited about Boston. I'm excited about leaving this shit hole. To go live in a place where the leaves change and the seasons are different, it seems like heaven. No more LA heat, no more bullshit evergreen trees... No more fucking Constance.
My eyes wander to her casket and while I don't laugh like I really want to, I don't bother with pretending to be devastated either. I don't feel sad. I don't feel anything.
Which is strange, I suppose. I always thought I'd love this, I always thought I'd be satisfied. Especially considering it was me who ultimately brought her end. But no, I'm strangely empty. Like it doesn't even matter, whether she lives or not. All my life I spent hating her and now that she's gone, well, I don't know what to do. What exactly is my purpose?
I have no friends, my siblings are dead and my father might as well be too. I guess you could say I have no one. The thought scared me more than I cared to admit. What do I do now?
A hand on my shoulder brings me out of my reverie, and turning around, I decide to start slow. Now I go to Boston, and then... I guess we'll see.
xxx
On the long way to Boston, I learn a few things about Hugo, my father. First, I was right, he is a businessman. Something with computers, I think, but I don't pay that much attention. Second, he's engaged to some woman whom I'm scheduled to meet soon, after he's back from his business trip in Istanbul, which is the third thing I learn about him. Not even a day after I arrived, he's leaving for two weeks and I'll be alone for that time.
Well, this is not so bad after all, I think to myself. The house is, unsurprisingly, huge and although it's not really my style - too cliche, too extravagant - I can appreciate it better than the one we used to have with the Cocksucker. It won't be completely horrible to live here, minus my father. But hopefully he won't be around much.
And of course there's his fiancé as well, but I decide to worry about her only after I met her.
My first day in Boston starts out uneventfully. I say goodbye to Hugo in the morning, - an awkward procedure, as he obviously has no clue what to do with the son he abandoned so long ago, and I can't be bothered to give a shit and make things easier on him - I drink my usual cup of coffee, and then I'm off to the school he already managed to enroll me in. It's the same old boring shit as in LA, same old stupid people, and I already know I won't be making any appearances for the rest of the week. I only made an effort to come because it was my first day, but that's it. There's nothing useful school could ever teach me.
I come home to an empty house, as expected, and after exploring it a bit, I decide to go see the city as well. It's the first few weeks of September, the sun is still shining brightly, but the weather is comfortably warm, not suffocating like in LA. It's only one thing, but it already makes me love this city more than the "City of Angels". I roam the streets, making note of every book or CD store I see, every interesting things I come across, statues, parks, fountains... I only take notice of the time when I begin to feel my legs tiring and I realize that I've been walking for a few hours now, observing Boston and its residents. Sitting down a nearby bench, I begin people watching.
A man in a black suit passes by, carrying a suitcase, talking to someone on the phone. An important man, no doubt, or at least he thinks of himself as one. He reminds me of my father, so I quickly look away. My eyes land on a girl with long dark hair, pale skin, dressed in black. She's walking in a quick pace, her eyes are cast down and her arms are gripping her sides as if she's trying to protect herself from something. Maybe she's being bullied or abused. Then comes a teenager on a skateboard, his hat hiding his eyes and his jeans barely covering his ass which makes me roll my eyes in disgust. Typical. Is it so hard to pull those jeans up higher? An elderly lady follows him, one hand gripping her stick, the other holding the leash of her dog, murmuring something about purple eggs under her breath as she passes me. Grinning to myself, I turn to the next person walking by and that's when it happens.
There she is, easily the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes upon. My breath catches in my throat, and I'm unprepared for the strange sensations building in my chest, a feeling I can identify as lust and something else entirely. I barely have enough time to take her in as a whole, let alone reflect on those feelings, before a man comes colliding into her, spilling the cup of coffee he was carrying all over her white shirt. To say she's pissed would be an understatement.
She mutters a few cuss words under her breath and calls him an idiot, but accepts the tissues he offers her, demanding him to have her clothing cleaned. He quickly agrees, and although the anger is clearly present on her face, she remains civil until she notices him looking at her breasts. I suppose I can't blame him. The brown spot on her white shirt is almost see through, clinging to her curves quite nicely and I find myself feasting my eyes on her as well. Her breasts aren't large or too small, in fact, they seem like just the right size for me to hold them in my hands, squeeze them, make her moan. But it's her nipple which catches my - and probably his - attention, hardened and pointy and distracting. I imagine them pink and inviting, I imagine taking them into my mouth and sucking. Fuck. I can already feel my jeans tightening uncomfortably and I don't even stop to question that I have literally never in my life seen this woman before. I don't care. I already know that I want her. And some strange, possessive part of me deep down inside wants to strangle this man for daring to look at her that way, even if it's understandable.
That's why I'm happy to see that she doesn't find the stares flattering either.
("My eyes are up here, asshole.")
She hisses the words at him threateningly. Have I mentioned it yet that even her voice is absolutely alluring? Especially with that barely disguised anger coloring it. I bet hate sex would be so hot with her.
He lifts his gaze back up to her face but he doesn't look apologetic in the slightest. In fact, the bastard is actually smirking and has the nerve to use some cheap pickup line on her. The only reason I don't get up and pummel his face to the ground is because it would probably look strange to her and I want to see her reaction.
She growls in the back of her throat and the way she's glaring at him makes me think of that old saying. If looks could kill... Rummaging through her bag, she takes out a small white plastic card, with her phone number on it, I assume, and hands it over to him. What she does next surprises me though. She's lifting her arms, pulling her stained shirt over her head, throwing it at the man with a growl of 'I expect it cleaned by next week' and walks away in only her bra, completely ignoring the confused looks she gets from everyone. I stare at her retreating back in amazement, a chuckle bubbling out of me. She has fire. She's amazing.
The romantic in me says she's the woman of my dreams. The poet in me says she's a goddess walking this earth.
The realist in me says I need to have her.
xxx
The fact that she's obviously significantly older than me doesn't even occur to me until later.
xxx
I don't see her the next day which frustrates me to no end. Granted, I don't know what I expected. She's an unfamiliar woman in an unfamiliar, big city and the chances that I'll see her again are low. Fuck me. I don't know why I didn't think of that before but I could bang my head against the wall for my stupidity. I should have fucking followed her home or something, so I'd know a way to find her. But now I must come up with something else.
So I spend the day brainstorming while wandering the city, hoping to come across her again but no such luck. I visit the same bench I sat on when I saw her yesterday, I spend an hour or so people watching again, but she still doesn't come by. I'm not one to give up easily and since I have nothing better to do anyway, I spend most of the day on the streets. Eventually, though, I have to go home as well, unsatisfied and moody.
I hope tomorrow will bring more luck.
xxx
It must be fate, I decide, as my eyes rest upon her familiar features again. What were the chances of seeing her again? Not high, I suppose. Yet there she is, only two days after I first saw her, and I decide to take that as a sign. Even the universe wants me to have her. And there's no way I'll lose sight of her again.
I tail her from a safe distance, close enough to keep an eye on her, but far enough to not make her suspicious of my presence. I don't need her to think I'm a creep just yet. There'll be plenty of time for that later. But even so, she doesn't look like the type who gets scared easily. No, on the contrary, she looks like the type who enjoys challenges, who's a bit of a daredevil just for the heck of it, who's attracted to the darkness.
And there's plenty of darkness in me to share with her. Which is why she'll be the perfect woman for me.
I follow her to a small coffee house, wonderful. Here I can blend in and observe her without being noticed. Last time I didn't have the chance to remember everything about her, but now, sitting a few tables away from her, I could commit all the details into my memory. Like the way her blonde hair falls into her eyes while she types something on her laptop and she pushes the unruly strays behind her ear, an adorable scowl sitting on her lips. Pink lips, free of lipstick or lip gloss. Moreover, her whole face is makeup less, which is a surprising but nice change. I like it, I definitely do. It makes her look natural, even more beautiful.
She's wearing a long black dress today, with red floral patterns on it, and a yellow cardigan. Black boots, no jewelry. The only word I can think of is unique. She's unique which I already love about her. She looks about forty, give or take, but it doesn't matter, I don't care. I don't know her yet, not really, but she's the best thing to happen to me since my siblings' deaths and, because of that, her age is irrelevant to me. Besides, if I'm being completely honest, the fact that she's older is a bit of a turn on.
The waitress asks her if she wants her usual which lets me know that she's a regular here. Good. At last, a place I can tie her to, somewhere I can find her.
I spend the rest of the time just watching her, fantasizing, my mind already conjuring up a thousand little scenarios, all sexual, of course. She notices my staring once, lifts her eyes and meets mine, and by the way her eyes scrutinize me, I can tell she's known I've been watching her for a while now. I don't look away, I hold her gaze, and I think my intentions are pretty clear. She doesn't look stupid, she can probably recognize the naked lust on my face and it excites me to see her eyes widen in surprise before they darken as she takes me in. Does she feel the same? Does she feel the attraction between us, the connection? I find it hard to imagine that she doesn't when it's all I could think about in since I saw her.
She says nothing, does nothing, just holds my gaze for a few seconds, equally curious and confused and - you may think I'm biased but I don't think I am - turned on. When she looks away, it's only because she's standing up to gather her belongings, and although she doesn't glance back at me, I can see the small smirk playing on her lips while she leaves the coffee house.
xxx
I spend the next two weeks watching her from afar. Afraid of making a bad impression, scaring her away, making her think I'm a freak or stalking her, - which is technically true but details - I don't show up again in the coffee house for a few days. I do keep an eye on her though, and I follow her home one time. Her house looks modest on the outside, nothing extravagant or special about it, however, there is something which catches my attention. The 'FOR SALE' sign in the garden. It makes me a bit worried. She isn't moving to another city, is she? Or maybe worse, moving in with a boyfriend? I know she's definitely not married or engaged because she's not wearing a ring on her finger, but there's a chance she has a boyfriend.
I can't be sure, but it somewhat pacifies me that the only male person to show up at her house in the time I spend stalking her is a boy about my age, perhaps a bit older, who looks like her son, or a family member at the very least, but definitely not a boyfriend. Even if she has someone else, it won't stop me from trying to win her over, but it might make things just a tad harder on me. Not only that, but the thought of her with some guy who most likely doesn't even deserve her makes me want to punch things.
That's an interesting realization to me. Obviously, I feel attracted to her, but it goes beyond that. I want to get to know her. I feel like I already do, like I've known her my whole life. It seems stupid when you think about it, since we've never even talked before and I know next to nothing about her, but the connection I feel is undeniable. I want to be with her, in more ways than one. I guess this is what they call 'love at first sight', even though I don't believe in that stuff. And I don't think I love her either, I don't. But maybe I could. I don't know.
Maybe I'm just in love with the idea of being in love, of finding someone similar to me, someone who understands me and doesn't judge me. Someone who can challenge me and love me back. Maybe I'm just projecting these thoughts and feelings onto this mystery woman simply because I haven't seen anyone more beautiful than her in my whole life. Maybe that's all.
Or maybe there's more to it. But I know there's only one way to find out.
xxx
It's Friday, the day Hugo is coming back from his business trip in Istanbul, but that's not why I feel so nervous. I'm nervous because this is it, today is the day I finally approach her. My mystery woman.
I still don't know her name. I spent the entire time trying to figure it out, even guessing sometimes, but none of the names I came up with seemed to fit. It's driving me up the wall, not knowing. Whose name am I supposed to call out when I jerk off to thoughts of her at night, every night?
Today, I would finally find out. Hopefully.
Truthfully, I can't tell why I took so long to approach her. Maybe some part of me, the sick son of a bitch part of me, enjoyed watching her in secret. Maybe I wanted to make sure she really was worth my attentions. But probably both.
I come up to her in the coffee house, sitting down at her table. I've been here only once more after we participated in our staring contest, (which I won, by the way, because she was the one who stood up to leave) but that time I made sure I didn't even look her way. It was hard to, but I managed to completely ignore her and was out the door the moment I finished my coffee. It was worth it when I felt her gaze burning a hole in my back as I left. Yeah, I definitely riled her up that day. I made her crave my attention, made her wonder why I didn't even glance in her way, which was my intention.
Now, I would finally begin my pursuit of her. I have an inkling it wouldn't be the easiest thing I've ever done, but it would be worth it. I could make her mine, I have faith in that.
She glances up as I sit down, watching me closely. Her face doesn't betray any emotions but her eyes shine with curiosity and, if I'm correct, a little bit of smugness. I hold back a grin. Here goes nothing.
("Hi."
"So you finally worked up your courage to approach me, huh?")
She's smirking as she leans back in her seat and I have a feeling she's completely aware of how enchanted I am by her and she loves it. She's already driving me crazy with that little tilt of her mouth as she looks at me. That's why it takes me a moment too long to answer and then she's laughing softly, eyes twinkling.
("What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"
"I'm Tate."
"Hello, Tate. Wanna tell me what you want from me?"
"I think you know. I couldn't help but notice you and I had to talk to you. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
"Charming. But a little too sappy for my taste.")
I chuckle. She takes a sip of her coffee but her chocolate brown eyes never leave mine, the curious gleam in them still apparent. And me, I'm still plagued by one question in particular - I need to put a name to her face.
("I didn't catch your name."
"Because I didn't tell you."
"Are you going to?"
"How old are you?"
"Old enough."
"I doubt that. You're young, it's sweet that you've taken an interest in me but it just kind of makes me think of that old ABBA song, what is it called...
"Does Your Mother Know?"
"That, yes. See, I was a kid when it was a big hit in the seventies and you... your parents probably weren't even planning you yet."
"Age is just a number."
"The law doesn't agree."
"How do you know I'm not of age yet?"
"You're not, are you? That's why it took so long for you to approach me?"
"I wasn't scared."
"Mmmmh."
"I wasn't. And I can tell that you like the attention I'm giving you.")
She has no response to that because she knows I'm right. It makes me smirk, until she stands up and puts her laptop back in her bag, obviously getting ready to leave. Irrational panic rises in my chest, fearing that I scared her away and she won't come back to the coffee house anymore and I won't see her again. I could not have screwed this up so quickly, could I? I know she feels the attraction I feel for her too, I know it. She can try to run but she won't get far. Or at least I hope so.
Desperation makes me call after her, louder than intended but she answers me, at least.
("Your name, please."
"Violet.")
She doesn't turn to look back at me as she exits.
xxx
Violet.
Violet.
I test the name on my tongue, repeat it over and over again as I'm walking home.
Violet.
I imagine saying it to her, I imagine the name falling from my lips as I fuck her - or, more realistically, as I jack off tonight.
Violet.
It's perfect.
xxx
It's dark and raining outside when my father arrives home, effectively ending the comfortable freedom I had in the last two weeks. Setting his umbrella aside, he tells me he's brought his fiancé over so I can meet her, and I don't even have time to prepare before she walks in.
Not just anyone woman, but her. My woman. My mystery woman. Violet.
For a second I'm just simply overjoyed to see her again, my brain not yet catching up, but the grin freezes on my face when I realize what this means. It's her, his fiancé? It couldn't be. No, maybe I'm just hallucinating. No way I could be that unlucky, right?
But her face mirrors my shock, even if she tries to not let it show, nodding along to something my father is saying. I don't pay attention to him. I'm too occupied with cursing everything and everyone under the sun for putting me in this impossible situation, because for fuck's sake, she's not only engaged but she's engaged to my goddamn father. The thought is revolting. How is this possible?
She offers her hand for me to shake and I know she's not going to mention our earlier escapades, not to him, something I'm grateful for. I don't want him to know either. So I play along, shaking her hand, unable to ignore the rush of electricity coursing through me when her skin touches mine. The first time I touch her and it has to go like this... I find her eyes, observing her, and I know, I just know she feels it too. There's something else which catches my attention as well, the fact that she's wearing a shiny, huge diamond ring on her finger. Something she definitely wasn't wearing any of the times I watched her. I would have noticed it. Interesting.
Of course I can't ask her about it right now so I just smile and politely introduce myself while thinking that, damn it, I would rather take the hallucinations.
What a fucked up little family.
xxx
("You weren't wearing your ring when I met you."
"Yeah, so?"
"Why?"
"I don't like it. It's not my style. I only wear it around him."
"That's bullshit. Why do you have to wear a ring you don't like for his benefit?"
"Marriage is compromises.")
I sigh, rolling my eyes. Now I could start trying to convince her not to marry him but something tells me it's too soon for big speeches and heartfelt declarations yet. I don't think trying too hard is the way to get to her.
So instead I tell her the simple truth.
("Don't think just because you're marrying my father, this is over. I want you and I'm not giving up."
"You're gonna have to wait forever for me."
"Then I will.")
xxx
When I find out the wedding is in two weeks, I break a vase or two in the house. It's too soon and I know I won't be able to stop it or win her over in time. Thus, I'm doomed to chase after a woman who's married to my father. It doesn't make me feel less for her but it does make things more complicated and messed up, and just the thought of her in the arms of Hugo causes one of those vase's death.
She's the only one who comes to find the source of the commotion but when she sees what I'm doing, she just gives me a look and walks away. Great. I hope she thinks I'm a total psychopath now, just what I needed. I rub a hand across my forehead and kick the bedside table, ignoring the small ache in my toe.
What should I do now?
xxx
I decide to do the obvious: get to know her. Help her with wedding preparations. Talk to her, find out as much as I can about her. It's a start, for both of us. I have a feeling that no matter how attracted she might be to me, she's not going to give in just for the sake of sex. There's gotta be some kind of emotional connection between us too. And that works out perfectly for me, because I like her, I do. She's an interesting woman, quite easily the most interesting woman I've ever encountered in my life, and I want to get to know her. I want to know everything.
So over the course of the next two weeks, I find out many things about her. I learn that she works at home as a translator - French and Russian. The coffee shop I first talked to her is a place she often goes to work. She's forty-five years old, the same as my mother was, which is which is a little bit discouraging - not because I give a damn but because she might. She has a twenty-four year old son, (older than me, also a bit unnerving) named Gale. He's a result of a one night stand she had when she was young and she has no idea who his father is. She raised him all alone, with the help of her parents sometimes. Her parents, she has a complicated relationship with them. When she was about my age, they had a fallout, a huge fallout which ended up with them getting divorced a few years later. Apparently her mother had a miscarriage and her father cheated on her with his much younger student (oh-oh, the irony) and afterwards they were both too busy hating each other to be a parent to Violet. She says that by the time they got to the decision to get divorced, she was actually glad to see her parents split.
It's these and many other basic things I learn about her. I discover that her favorite color is green and she's a huge fan of Morrissey and Edgar Allan Poe. I find out that she wants to keep her maiden name, Harmon, after the wedding. No Mrs. Hugo Langdon or Violet Langdon. Which is great because I don't want my father to be the reason for her wearing our family name. She tells me many little things in our many conversations, and in return, I do the same. I tell her about how I used to run track and have piano lessons all because my mother made me. I tell her that my favorite color is black (or the color of her eyes) and that I love Nirvana. I tell her about my passion for birds. I even tell her all about Constance, and Addie and Beau, and how she's murdered them both. (Chased Addie into her death and smothered Beau.) I don't tell her that I actually killed her because I don't feel like she's ready for that yet but maybe someday.
We exchange stories, share our lives with each other and it's great. It's fucking fantastic, because we both feel like we can trust one another, confide in each other. I feel I'm getting somewhere with her, slowly but surely. The knowledge makes me fall asleep with a smile on my face every night after I jerked off, thinking only about her.
xxx
Unfortunately, the day of the wedding arrives sooner than I would have liked it. I'm forced to sit through it in my black tuxedo with a perpetual scowl on my face, watching as she walks down the aisle in her white dress - nothing big, unlike the rest of the wedding, she kept it simple and clean - and say her 'I do' to my father. I roll my eyes the whole time and turn away when they kiss. I so do not need that image burned in my brain for the rest of my life.
The reception is a bit more bearable. There's a lot of people, too much dancing and too loud music - bad music, on top of it - but the food is good and there's booze. So I tolerate it. I sit at one of the tables in the corner, all by myself, only having eyes for her the entire time. She looks kind of bored as well. Her smile is just a bit forced when she talks to the guests and accepts their good wishes, and her eyes don't really shine when she dances with her new husband, no matter how hard she tries to look happy. She doesn't love him. She's settling at best. It makes me sad because a woman like her shouldn't be settling for something less than she deserves.
I approach her at last, a glass of champagne in my hand to match hers, clinking our glasses together to get her attention. She turns around, her polite smile transforming to a cheeky smirk when she sees me.
("You look beautiful."
"Thank you. You look good yourself."
"A dance?"
"I don't think,-"
"Come on. No one will say anything if you dance with your new husband's son.")
She contemplates for a second, her eyes searching mine for any ulterior motives, but I had none besides wanting to talk to her and have her close. Dancing is a good excuse to hold her as close to me as I want to. With a small sigh, she nods and places her champagne on the table, holding her hand out for me. I take it without hesitation, familiar with the burning sensation I feel when our skins touch. Leading her to the dance floor, I'm unable to wipe off the huge Cheshire grin on my face. Dancing with a beautiful woman in my arms, even if it's her wedding to another man, life could be worse.
("Enjoying the party?"
"Sure."
"You don't seem so enthusiastic."
"I am. I'm just not one of those stupid, brainless brides, you know. I wanted a smaller wedding anyway. All these people here, I don't even know them."
"Hugo makes all the shots for you, doesn't he? That comprise thing, it doesn't seem like it's working out for you well."
"I wouldn't say that. I don't allow a man to tell me what to do, I lead my own life, do my own thing. It's just the wedding."
"Frankly, it sounds like you two have two different lives, want different things. Why did you marry him? Do you love him?"
"He could be worse. I gave up on love a long time ago."
"Bitter? Someone broke your heart?"
"Not really, as I never gave anyone my heart to begin with. It was enough to watch my parents struggle through their marriage, then all my friends and everyone I know. They're all so invested, all so desperate for love, and when it doesn't work out... they're heartbroken. So it's easier to just not expect anything from anyone, then you won't be disappointed."
"I don't know... I believe there is someone right out there for everyone, or at least for those who deserve it. You certainly deserve it. You deserve better than him."
"You don't even know him."
"I know he left us when I was four and never tried to contact us again. I know that even now, he still doesn't try to be my father. What I don't know is why you married him if you don't love him."
"When you've been with someone for a while, at my age, it just make sense. No one wants to be alone for the rest of their lives. So when he popped the question, I said yes. It's either that or break up."
"Are you scared of being alone?"
"No. Not scared. I just don't want to be. There's a difference.")
I spin her around and pull her closer than before, our chests pressing together. She gasps at my move. Our eyes lock together and something passes between us, our mutual attraction for each other heightening, our breaths mingling together. Her chocolate brown eyes darken with something that I'm sure is lust, and I bite down on my lips to keep from grinning. Her next word, a gasp, she's barely able to get it out.
("Don't.
"Don't what?"
"Don't look at me like that, it's not going to happen."
"You flirted with me, though, when we first met."
"I didn't."
"Oh, come on. Who are you trying to fool?"
"Fine. Maybe I did. There's nothing harmful in that. You're an attractive boy and anyone would have felt flattered to be the center of your attention. But I didn't know who you were then. And I assure you, even if you weren't Hugo's son, nothing would have ever happened between us."
"So you think I'm attractive?"
"Is that the only thing you heard?"
"Do you think I'm irresistible too? Insanely hot?"
"I do think you're very cocky."
"Only because I know you want me."
"Keep dreaming, boy.")
Predictably, she disentangles herself from me and walks away, but from a safe distance, she glances back. I grin. Gotcha, Violet Harmon.
xxx
It's around eleven o'clock when I wander downstairs to get myself a glass of water, and I come across Violet, sitting at the table with wine in her hand. She's all dolled up, fancy dress, fancy hair, and two plates on the table with some delicious looking food on them. The only light in the room comes from two burning candles. Like in the fucking movies...
But her facial expression is all wrong, sad and disappointed, instead of excited, and she's gulping down those glasses of wine like her life depended on it. I can already pretty much guess what happened, but I ask anyway so I can try to comfort her, my own thirst for water forgotten.
("Hey? What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"That's why you're all dressed up, drinking wine alone at a candlelit romantic dinner for two?")
She sighs, rolls her eyes and takes another gulp of wine, but after a moment of hesitation, she answers.
("He cancelled. I just thought tonight would be the night..."
"The night for what?"
"..."
"Violet?"
"We haven't had sex yet.")
She blurts it out the words and my eyes go wide. It takes a moment to even understand what she just said, let alone respond to that, because really... they didn't have sex? For how long? And how is it even possible? I mean if I was her husband... she would never go a day without sex again.
("You mean... since you got married?"
"No. I mean ever."
"But... what? How is that possible, you've been together for years, haven't you?"
"Yeah, and he always said he wanted to wait till marriage to make it 'special'.")
She uses the quote marks, a sneer on her face. I'm still shell shocked.
("You didn't find that suspicious?"
"Of course I did. But what was I supposed to do, force to have sex with me? Break up with him because he didn't?"
"What about your wedding night? Didn't you have sex then?"
"He said he was tired and had a headache."
"Oh, come on."
"I know. I just didn't want to fight on our wedding day so I let it go. Wanna know what I think? I think he's screwing other women, probably younger. Basically teenagers, I think that's what he's into. And he only married me so he could have his trophy wife to show off to others, but he's not really attracted to me. That's what his side whores are for. And I just foolishly thought, maybe I can seduce him. Make him want me. I miss sex, you know. So I dressed up, I made dinner, I'm wearing this hot red lingerie underneath that I know you would just die for, and he... he cancels.")
As if I didn't already think my father was a total asshole, this definitely didn't help matters. Hurting Violet, cheating on her, not having sex with her... it all seems so unspeakable to me. Why? Why would he do that? I can't understand. I don't really know what to say to comfort her either, so I just tell her the truth.
("He's an idiot if he doesn't want to be with you. You know, if I had you,-"
"Don't. Don't make this about you, please, don't use it to your advantage."
"You're right. I'm sorry. I won't."
"Screw it. If he can, I can. Have an affair, I mean."
"With me-"
"No. Not with you. You're too young."
"Could be a good thing.")
I shrug. She laughs. My lips curve into a smile - at least I cheered her up, somehow. That was my main intention. Her laughter dies down, but the small smile on her face remains, and she reaches out, twirling a strand of my hair with her fingers. I don't dare move, I even hold my breath, too afraid I'll scare her away. But she just grins one last time and stands up.
As I watch her walk away, all I can think about is that hot red lingerie she mentioned earlier.
xxx
It's the beginning of October but on a Sunday morning, I wake up to bright sunshine and unbearable hotness. Living in LA all my life, I'm used to this kind of weather, but I don't like it. I prefer the stormy, windy days, when everything is darker and duller, and the sun doesn't shine so bright. But I guess I'm out of luck lately. Hugo is home too, and he offers to take Violet - and after a moment of awkward silence, me as well - to the beach but she politely declines. I'm glad she does. A crowded, dirty pool full of people and screaming kids? I don't think I'll ever be in the mood for that.
Instead, she suggests to use the pool we have at home in the backyard, and because I really want to see her in a bikini, I support the idea. Of course when I agreed so willingly to participate in this "family moment", I didn't think of how easy it would be to spot my raging hard-on in my swimwear and that became a problem when I saw Violet. Truthfully, I don't even care if she sees my erection or not, - let her know the affect she has on me, let her crave me as well - it's Hugo I'm worried about. Because for one, that would be gross, and for two, I'm sure he'd have some questions for me I could not answer. Oh, I'm sorry, father, it's just that I have this huge crush on your wife and I want to fuck her seven shades of Sunday and seeing her in a bikini isn't really helping with that. Yeah, right. I don't think so.
The black bikini she's wearing is fairly simple, of course, not too small or revealing, but it's still enough to get your imagination going. Then again, with Violet, anything can get your imagination going. In the end, I have to think of tasteless, repulsive things - like Constance, just to mention one - to save myself the embarrassment and avoid a family drama. I haven't even won her over yet, I do not need Hugo butting his nose into our business. But she's watching me as well, I can feel her eyes linger on my bare chest when I pass her by. It makes me feel better. Fucking fantastic, to be honest. Hugo won't notice something small and meaningless thing like that, but I do, because to me, it means everything.
We spend about an hour, give or take, at the pool, Violet sunbathing while Hugo and I take turns to swim laps, before he gets bored with it and us. He goes inside with an excuse to make coffee, and then we're alone. She's on her stomach, a book in her hand, and I just can't resist the perfect opportunity to fuck with her a little. As quietly as possible, I stand up and head towards her. She doesn't notice me, not until I place my hand on her leg, my touch probably ice cold from the water. She jumps in surprise, tries to turn around to face me, but I hold her down, keeping her in place.
("Easy there, Vi."
"Tate, what the hell are you doing?"
"Just having a little fun. Relax, will you?"
"It's kinda hard to when your hand is on my leg, and GODDAMN IT, don't you dare try to go higher."
"So you're bothered by my hand on your leg? Does it make you want to do dirty things with me?"
"You wish."
"Obviously, I do. But I think you want this too.")
My hand, despite her protests and warnings, slides up higher to her thigh, and I can hear her breath hitch. I pause for a moment, but she doesn't try to move away. Yes, I'm holding her down with my other hand, but if she really wanted to, she could break free. I wouldn't force anything on her that she doesn't want. And that's the thing, she does want this. That's why she doesn't move. So encouraged, I continue. I don't even know what I'm really doing, just teasing her a bit, I guess. I stroke her skin, I draw shapes and patterns with my fingertips, watch her quiver and tremble under my touch. I don't see her face, but it's fascinating nonetheless, to get her like this. All under my control. I wonder how far she would allow me to go... would she allow me to get her off?
That thought in mind, I run my fingers up even higher, almost reaching the edge of her panties, when the moment is ruined. Hugo calls her name from the house and she scrambles to her feet and away from me quicker than I could even react. Damn. I had forgotten about him altogether. I suspect so had she, that's why she allowed me to even get this far. I sigh, rubbing my eyes in disappointment. Damn fucking Hugo, now I'll never know if she would have allowed me to touch her, really touch her. And I don't think she'll allow me close to her again anytime soon. She already can't get away from me faster as it is, muttering that the "coffee must be ready" without even looking at me.
Perfect. Perfect failure.
xxx
One day, I come home from school with a bruised lip, a bloody nose and a nasty cut on my cheek, and although I try to head straight to my room, she notices, of course. Initially, I didn't want her to see it but the way she fusses over me makes me change my mind. It's honestly kind of cute, the way she tries to make sure I'm okay before even asking about what happened.
A cloth in her hand, she insists on disinfecting the wound, examining my nose as well. Interestingly enough, she leaves my lips alone.
("Well, it's not broken, you're lucky."
"It has nothing to do with luck, the guy who did this honestly didn't know how to hit."
"So that's what happened? You got into a fight?"
"Yeah. He was an asshole. He thought he could tell me where I can or can't smoke."
"So you beat him up?"
"He threw the first punch. But basically, yeah."
"I suspect he looks far worse than you do."
"How do you know?")
She stops, stares at me for a moment with an unreadable expression. Then she goes back to what she was doing, cleaning my face.
("There's something dark and dangerous in you, Tate. I think when you explode... you really explode.")
For a second I'm convinced I'm screwed because she saw through me and all my facades, she saw the twisted, ugly person I really am and now she would never give me a chance. But she never stops dabbing the cloth against my cheek, doesn't give a disapproving, disgusted or fearful look, doesn't pull away from me. And I realize she's known this for a while. It wasn't a sudden revelation she came to when she saw me all bruised and beaten or when I told her what I did to that guy. She figured it out already, I'm not sure when or how, but maybe she's known it since day one. I wouldn't be surprised. The way I can see through her, the way I know she wants me, she can probably see through me just the same. And she's not running in fear. She's here, tending my wounds. She isn't scared of me or the darkness inside of me.
My lips curl up into a grin. I could kiss her right now. Instead, I tell her, ("Not around you. You're my light") and although she doesn't comment on my remark, I swear I can see her cheeks turning to a faint pink color. A blushing Violet Harmon, how endearing.
Soon, she finishes fetching me up and with her free hand, touches the wound on my cheek. ("There. Now you're good to go.") Her words are only a whisper, and I know I'm not planning to go anywhere right now. Not when the air between us is crackling with electricity, her hand is still on my skin and she's looking at me like she's only one insignificant excuse away from kissing me. I wait, patiently. If we are to kiss, I want her to make the first move. She has to, otherwise later on she'll make up a thousand excuses about how I was the one to kiss her and she was just shocked into kissing me back, and how it was a mistake she regrets. I won't have that. If she doesn't make a move, I'll just walk away and wait for another opportunity to arise. But then her eyes wander down to my lips and I know I won't have to wait. I'm not sure what brought this on so suddenly, but fuck if I care when she's leaning in towards me, her eyes closing. I meet her halfway and it's explosions.
Like tasting heaven. A personalized heaven just for me. I imagined kissing her a thousand times ever since the first time I saw her on the street, but unsurprisingly, my fantasies never even came close. Her lips, which faintly taste of cigarettes, move in perfect synch against my own, getting more eager and eager with each passing second, like she just can't get enough of me. The feeling is mutual. Her hand moves from my cheek to my hair, threading her fingers through the blonde strands, pulling on them quite roughly. I hiss against her lips in both pain and pleasure. I wonder if she knows I like it rough or if she simply likes it that way too. Maybe both. In response to the hair pulling, I bite down on her lip, my hands snaking around her waist, causing her to press against me tighter. I'm not aware of anything else besides her and the feelings she's giving me, and the only thing I'm able to think about is why we haven't been doing this sooner? But of course, all too soon it's over.
When I push for more, try to slip my hands up her shirt, she pulls away like she had been thunderstruck. Her face is flushed, eyes crazy with lust, and I notice with pride that her lip is bleeding from when I bit down on it earlier. Now we match, I think, licking my own bruised lip.
She takes deep, long breaths, rubs her hand against her face. I can already see her closing back up like a flower which only blooms once in a year, and even then only for a few seconds. She's pulling all her walls back up, ready to start resisting me again with full force. When she speaks, her voice is hoarse.
("We shouldn't have done that. I could be your mother, you do realize that?"
"But you're not. And you kissed me back. Actually, you started this."
"I have a son who's older than you. Your mother was the same age as me. It's not okay to do this.")
See? Told you she would care. Before I could say anything, come up with any reason to make her stay, she throws the cloth she's still holding in one hand on the kitchen shelf and storms away. Well. One step forward, two steps back.
xxx
The next day the principal requests a meeting with my parents and it's Violet who ends up going. (Of course.) That alone wouldn't bother me because I know Violet doesn't really give a crap that I beat up that other kid, but the principal's secretary is a fucking idiot.
("I'm here because of Tate Langdon. I have an appointment with Principal Montgomery."
"Oh, you're his mother, right?"
"Yes."
"No."
"..."
"Stepmother. I'm his stepmother.")
She repeats the word like she only just realized it, and maybe that's partially true. I know I haven't thought of it that way either. But unlike her, the revelation doesn't make me withdraw from her, so much so that she even refuses to look at me for the rest of the day. I don't care about that. But I guess it's easier for me, after all, she's the one who's married and she's the one who would be going to jail if anyone ever found out about us. (Not that there's anything to find out about, yet.) And she did marry Hugo, so some small part of her must care for him at least a little. I don't. I don't give two shits about him. It makes my situation a lot easier, but it doesn't make it easier to watch her pull away from me again. And that's what she does.
The principal goes on and on about how what I've done is unacceptable and it can't happen again and I'm going to be suspended for two weeks. (Perfect. More time to spend with Violet.) I don't really listen to him, paying attention to Violet instead. She doesn't look at me but I know she's aware I'm watching her. Her face is hard to read, but her posture is stiff and cold, hands clenched at her side, tapping her leg against the floor. She looks stressed and I wish I could make her feel relaxed for a while. Oh, I have plenty of ideas I could try to make her relax...
Through the whole meeting, she never once calls me by my name, always saying 'stepson' instead. As if she has to constantly remind herself. And while today is another step backwards, it gives me hope. Because if she has to keep reminding herself that I'm unavailable to her, then we're on the right track.
xxx
After the incident with the principal's secretary and that ugly word, stepson, she tries her best to ignore me for days. I admit, she's not bad at it either. She starts going out again to work, to the coffee house, I presume, but when I visit the place one day, she's not there. She must have anticipated me following her here and found a new place. When she's at home, she locks herself in her room most of the time, only going out to the bathroom. She even eats inside her room. It's hard to try to talk some sense into her like this. And I know what she's trying to do. She's building up her walls again, those walls I brought down in the past few weeks, so she can stand up against me stronger. I can't let that happen. I could start from the beginning, begin tearing her down again, but I'm impatient, I don't want to waste precious time anymore. So I have to come up with something. Shock her out of this state, it's the only way.
Thank god I know her schedule by heart now, because I'm going to need it for this next scheme.
xxx
Hot water rains down on me, burning my naked skin but I don't mind. Pain is pleasure. I'm waiting for her, inspecting her shampoos and shower gels in the meantime. Any moment now, she could arrive, but until then I busy myself with smelling her shampoo, apples, and pretending it's her hair and she's here with me in the shower, in my arms. Fantastic fantasies which, I hope, will come true one day. Or, if she's not up to it, I would be satisfied with regular bed sex as well, but something tells me it's not happening today. Today is just a step in that direction, if everything goes according to plan.
The bathroom door opens and there she is, blinking at me in shock, mouth agape.
("Oh my god."
"Hello, Violet."
"What are you doing in my shower?"
"I was curious what it looked like. How big it is, you know. Mine is kinda small. Couldn't fit two people. This though..."
"Tate."
"What? Are you blushing?"
"No!"
"That was awfully quick. You sound defensive."
"Fuck you."
"Do you want to?")
That's when she realizes she can't win this argument, or maybe she has no answer she wants to say aloud to that, and fuming, she storms away. I chuckle in amusement because I know perfectly well that her dilated pupils weren't the cause of her anger and I certainly didn't miss the way her eyes lingered on me either. She was turned on, plain and simple. Pissed and turned on.
Perfect combination.
xxx
The very next day, I find an envelope sitting on my desk, and perhaps the content of it shouldn't surprise after the stunt I pulled in the bathroom, but it does.
("What's this?"
"Do you like it?"
"Violet."
"I figured if you jerked off to thoughts of me every night anyway, you might as well have some new material.")
She's not even looking at me, her eyes still on the book she's reading until I slam my hand down on the table, the photos she gave me spilling out of the envelope, and she raises her eyes to meet mine, unaffected by my outburst. Perhaps it's a bit irrational to be mad, after all it's not like I don't like the pictures, oh I do, a lot, but it frustrates me because I know nothing is going to change still. She's not going to give in yet, maybe not for a while, and she made my suffering so much worse with this.
Payback is a bitch, huh?
("You gotta stop doing this."
"What?"
"Toying with me. Flirt with me then expect me to not act on my feelings. Give me nude photos of yourself then pull away again, like nothing happened. You want this, you want me, why don't you just admit it and give in?"
"Maybe I like you chasing me.")
Her answer is accompanied by a careless shrug and then her eyes are back to the book, letting me know without words that she's finished with our conversation. So be it then. I just have to try harder from now on.
I crouch down to gather the pictures from the floor - now that I have them, I'm keeping them. She was right, I do need some new material, and this is gonna come in handy tonight. Or... well, right now because even glancing at them briefly causes my dick to harden. When I stand up, I can see her watching me from the corner of her eye, a proud smirk on her lips. Of course, she loves knowing I think of her while I jerk off, the self-satisfied bitch. Her gaze wanders down to my pants and her eyes visibly darken when she sees the small bulge there, unconsciously running her tongue over her lips.
She's going to be the death of me.
She snaps her gaze back up when I let out a small groan, our eyes meeting, her book forgotten in her hands. She's burning a hole in me with the intensity of her stare, and I can just imagine the things running through her mind right now. Probably similar things I'm thinking of. Like wrapping her legs around my waist, pushing my hard cock inside her heat, making her scream until her throat is sore and she can't breathe...
I'm brought out of my fantasies by the whisper of my name, a quiet longing sound which leaves her lips. I'm not sure if she's even aware she said it, but either way, I'm more than satisfied to see how much I affected her as well. It's not just me and I always knew that, but it always thrilled me to realize it again and again.
It's my turn to smirk at her, holding up the pictures as I turn around to go and let her steam in her own sexual frustration for a while.
("Thanks for the pictures, Violet.")
As I leave, I can hear her blow out a long sigh of yearning, and I smile. Apparently, you can go far with Violet Harmon if you only give her some eye sex.
( la petite mort 2/2 )
Author: blondetate
Summary: Boston, where the leaves change and the seasons are different. The city seems like heaven to him. And every heaven has angels, don't they?
Spoilers/Warning/Triggers: Language, brief mentions of murder and death, sexual situations (between a minor and an adult)
Author Notes: AU. The title means little death in french, which is a metaphor for orgasm. I really liked the prompt, which was to write an older Violet with a younger Tate, and it was especially fun because I had been playing around with a similar idea for ages before I even got the prompt. I had originally said I would write this in second POV, but ugh... I guess I'm fickle? I don't usually write in first person POV, but I did now. The writing style is still not exactly common though, because I did a thing with conversations, you'll see. Also, I'm curious who you guys could imagine as a 45 years old Violet. Personally, I went with Vera Farmiga but I'm open to other suggestions if you have any?
la petite mort
There's something ironic about meeting your father again after thirteen years at your mother's funeral. What's that saying about a door closing, another opening? Except I wish that both damn doors just closed.
There is no part of me which longs to go to Boston with my... Dad, but since I'm not of legal age yet, there is little I can do. I comfort myself by repeating over and over again that it can only be better than living with the Cocksucker, and if I could handle seventeen years by her side, I can handle one more by my father's. He doesn't look like he really cares about me anyway, so perhaps I can just get by on my own, unnoticed, while he continues living his life as if I was not there. I have no idea what he does for a living because I haven't heard of him since I was four, but judging by the way he dresses and talks, and the way he carries himself, I'd wager he's a business man. Hopefully the kind who is never home. It would certainly benefit me.
He's obviously impatient to leave my mother's memorial service and I can't say I blame him. My stuff is already packed and waiting in the car, and as much as I'm not looking forward to living with him, I am excited about Boston. I'm excited about leaving this shit hole. To go live in a place where the leaves change and the seasons are different, it seems like heaven. No more LA heat, no more bullshit evergreen trees... No more fucking Constance.
My eyes wander to her casket and while I don't laugh like I really want to, I don't bother with pretending to be devastated either. I don't feel sad. I don't feel anything.
Which is strange, I suppose. I always thought I'd love this, I always thought I'd be satisfied. Especially considering it was me who ultimately brought her end. But no, I'm strangely empty. Like it doesn't even matter, whether she lives or not. All my life I spent hating her and now that she's gone, well, I don't know what to do. What exactly is my purpose?
I have no friends, my siblings are dead and my father might as well be too. I guess you could say I have no one. The thought scared me more than I cared to admit. What do I do now?
A hand on my shoulder brings me out of my reverie, and turning around, I decide to start slow. Now I go to Boston, and then... I guess we'll see.
xxx
On the long way to Boston, I learn a few things about Hugo, my father. First, I was right, he is a businessman. Something with computers, I think, but I don't pay that much attention. Second, he's engaged to some woman whom I'm scheduled to meet soon, after he's back from his business trip in Istanbul, which is the third thing I learn about him. Not even a day after I arrived, he's leaving for two weeks and I'll be alone for that time.
Well, this is not so bad after all, I think to myself. The house is, unsurprisingly, huge and although it's not really my style - too cliche, too extravagant - I can appreciate it better than the one we used to have with the Cocksucker. It won't be completely horrible to live here, minus my father. But hopefully he won't be around much.
And of course there's his fiancé as well, but I decide to worry about her only after I met her.
My first day in Boston starts out uneventfully. I say goodbye to Hugo in the morning, - an awkward procedure, as he obviously has no clue what to do with the son he abandoned so long ago, and I can't be bothered to give a shit and make things easier on him - I drink my usual cup of coffee, and then I'm off to the school he already managed to enroll me in. It's the same old boring shit as in LA, same old stupid people, and I already know I won't be making any appearances for the rest of the week. I only made an effort to come because it was my first day, but that's it. There's nothing useful school could ever teach me.
I come home to an empty house, as expected, and after exploring it a bit, I decide to go see the city as well. It's the first few weeks of September, the sun is still shining brightly, but the weather is comfortably warm, not suffocating like in LA. It's only one thing, but it already makes me love this city more than the "City of Angels". I roam the streets, making note of every book or CD store I see, every interesting things I come across, statues, parks, fountains... I only take notice of the time when I begin to feel my legs tiring and I realize that I've been walking for a few hours now, observing Boston and its residents. Sitting down a nearby bench, I begin people watching.
A man in a black suit passes by, carrying a suitcase, talking to someone on the phone. An important man, no doubt, or at least he thinks of himself as one. He reminds me of my father, so I quickly look away. My eyes land on a girl with long dark hair, pale skin, dressed in black. She's walking in a quick pace, her eyes are cast down and her arms are gripping her sides as if she's trying to protect herself from something. Maybe she's being bullied or abused. Then comes a teenager on a skateboard, his hat hiding his eyes and his jeans barely covering his ass which makes me roll my eyes in disgust. Typical. Is it so hard to pull those jeans up higher? An elderly lady follows him, one hand gripping her stick, the other holding the leash of her dog, murmuring something about purple eggs under her breath as she passes me. Grinning to myself, I turn to the next person walking by and that's when it happens.
There she is, easily the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes upon. My breath catches in my throat, and I'm unprepared for the strange sensations building in my chest, a feeling I can identify as lust and something else entirely. I barely have enough time to take her in as a whole, let alone reflect on those feelings, before a man comes colliding into her, spilling the cup of coffee he was carrying all over her white shirt. To say she's pissed would be an understatement.
She mutters a few cuss words under her breath and calls him an idiot, but accepts the tissues he offers her, demanding him to have her clothing cleaned. He quickly agrees, and although the anger is clearly present on her face, she remains civil until she notices him looking at her breasts. I suppose I can't blame him. The brown spot on her white shirt is almost see through, clinging to her curves quite nicely and I find myself feasting my eyes on her as well. Her breasts aren't large or too small, in fact, they seem like just the right size for me to hold them in my hands, squeeze them, make her moan. But it's her nipple which catches my - and probably his - attention, hardened and pointy and distracting. I imagine them pink and inviting, I imagine taking them into my mouth and sucking. Fuck. I can already feel my jeans tightening uncomfortably and I don't even stop to question that I have literally never in my life seen this woman before. I don't care. I already know that I want her. And some strange, possessive part of me deep down inside wants to strangle this man for daring to look at her that way, even if it's understandable.
That's why I'm happy to see that she doesn't find the stares flattering either.
("My eyes are up here, asshole.")
She hisses the words at him threateningly. Have I mentioned it yet that even her voice is absolutely alluring? Especially with that barely disguised anger coloring it. I bet hate sex would be so hot with her.
He lifts his gaze back up to her face but he doesn't look apologetic in the slightest. In fact, the bastard is actually smirking and has the nerve to use some cheap pickup line on her. The only reason I don't get up and pummel his face to the ground is because it would probably look strange to her and I want to see her reaction.
She growls in the back of her throat and the way she's glaring at him makes me think of that old saying. If looks could kill... Rummaging through her bag, she takes out a small white plastic card, with her phone number on it, I assume, and hands it over to him. What she does next surprises me though. She's lifting her arms, pulling her stained shirt over her head, throwing it at the man with a growl of 'I expect it cleaned by next week' and walks away in only her bra, completely ignoring the confused looks she gets from everyone. I stare at her retreating back in amazement, a chuckle bubbling out of me. She has fire. She's amazing.
The romantic in me says she's the woman of my dreams. The poet in me says she's a goddess walking this earth.
The realist in me says I need to have her.
xxx
The fact that she's obviously significantly older than me doesn't even occur to me until later.
xxx
I don't see her the next day which frustrates me to no end. Granted, I don't know what I expected. She's an unfamiliar woman in an unfamiliar, big city and the chances that I'll see her again are low. Fuck me. I don't know why I didn't think of that before but I could bang my head against the wall for my stupidity. I should have fucking followed her home or something, so I'd know a way to find her. But now I must come up with something else.
So I spend the day brainstorming while wandering the city, hoping to come across her again but no such luck. I visit the same bench I sat on when I saw her yesterday, I spend an hour or so people watching again, but she still doesn't come by. I'm not one to give up easily and since I have nothing better to do anyway, I spend most of the day on the streets. Eventually, though, I have to go home as well, unsatisfied and moody.
I hope tomorrow will bring more luck.
xxx
It must be fate, I decide, as my eyes rest upon her familiar features again. What were the chances of seeing her again? Not high, I suppose. Yet there she is, only two days after I first saw her, and I decide to take that as a sign. Even the universe wants me to have her. And there's no way I'll lose sight of her again.
I tail her from a safe distance, close enough to keep an eye on her, but far enough to not make her suspicious of my presence. I don't need her to think I'm a creep just yet. There'll be plenty of time for that later. But even so, she doesn't look like the type who gets scared easily. No, on the contrary, she looks like the type who enjoys challenges, who's a bit of a daredevil just for the heck of it, who's attracted to the darkness.
And there's plenty of darkness in me to share with her. Which is why she'll be the perfect woman for me.
I follow her to a small coffee house, wonderful. Here I can blend in and observe her without being noticed. Last time I didn't have the chance to remember everything about her, but now, sitting a few tables away from her, I could commit all the details into my memory. Like the way her blonde hair falls into her eyes while she types something on her laptop and she pushes the unruly strays behind her ear, an adorable scowl sitting on her lips. Pink lips, free of lipstick or lip gloss. Moreover, her whole face is makeup less, which is a surprising but nice change. I like it, I definitely do. It makes her look natural, even more beautiful.
She's wearing a long black dress today, with red floral patterns on it, and a yellow cardigan. Black boots, no jewelry. The only word I can think of is unique. She's unique which I already love about her. She looks about forty, give or take, but it doesn't matter, I don't care. I don't know her yet, not really, but she's the best thing to happen to me since my siblings' deaths and, because of that, her age is irrelevant to me. Besides, if I'm being completely honest, the fact that she's older is a bit of a turn on.
The waitress asks her if she wants her usual which lets me know that she's a regular here. Good. At last, a place I can tie her to, somewhere I can find her.
I spend the rest of the time just watching her, fantasizing, my mind already conjuring up a thousand little scenarios, all sexual, of course. She notices my staring once, lifts her eyes and meets mine, and by the way her eyes scrutinize me, I can tell she's known I've been watching her for a while now. I don't look away, I hold her gaze, and I think my intentions are pretty clear. She doesn't look stupid, she can probably recognize the naked lust on my face and it excites me to see her eyes widen in surprise before they darken as she takes me in. Does she feel the same? Does she feel the attraction between us, the connection? I find it hard to imagine that she doesn't when it's all I could think about in since I saw her.
She says nothing, does nothing, just holds my gaze for a few seconds, equally curious and confused and - you may think I'm biased but I don't think I am - turned on. When she looks away, it's only because she's standing up to gather her belongings, and although she doesn't glance back at me, I can see the small smirk playing on her lips while she leaves the coffee house.
xxx
I spend the next two weeks watching her from afar. Afraid of making a bad impression, scaring her away, making her think I'm a freak or stalking her, - which is technically true but details - I don't show up again in the coffee house for a few days. I do keep an eye on her though, and I follow her home one time. Her house looks modest on the outside, nothing extravagant or special about it, however, there is something which catches my attention. The 'FOR SALE' sign in the garden. It makes me a bit worried. She isn't moving to another city, is she? Or maybe worse, moving in with a boyfriend? I know she's definitely not married or engaged because she's not wearing a ring on her finger, but there's a chance she has a boyfriend.
I can't be sure, but it somewhat pacifies me that the only male person to show up at her house in the time I spend stalking her is a boy about my age, perhaps a bit older, who looks like her son, or a family member at the very least, but definitely not a boyfriend. Even if she has someone else, it won't stop me from trying to win her over, but it might make things just a tad harder on me. Not only that, but the thought of her with some guy who most likely doesn't even deserve her makes me want to punch things.
That's an interesting realization to me. Obviously, I feel attracted to her, but it goes beyond that. I want to get to know her. I feel like I already do, like I've known her my whole life. It seems stupid when you think about it, since we've never even talked before and I know next to nothing about her, but the connection I feel is undeniable. I want to be with her, in more ways than one. I guess this is what they call 'love at first sight', even though I don't believe in that stuff. And I don't think I love her either, I don't. But maybe I could. I don't know.
Maybe I'm just in love with the idea of being in love, of finding someone similar to me, someone who understands me and doesn't judge me. Someone who can challenge me and love me back. Maybe I'm just projecting these thoughts and feelings onto this mystery woman simply because I haven't seen anyone more beautiful than her in my whole life. Maybe that's all.
Or maybe there's more to it. But I know there's only one way to find out.
xxx
It's Friday, the day Hugo is coming back from his business trip in Istanbul, but that's not why I feel so nervous. I'm nervous because this is it, today is the day I finally approach her. My mystery woman.
I still don't know her name. I spent the entire time trying to figure it out, even guessing sometimes, but none of the names I came up with seemed to fit. It's driving me up the wall, not knowing. Whose name am I supposed to call out when I jerk off to thoughts of her at night, every night?
Today, I would finally find out. Hopefully.
Truthfully, I can't tell why I took so long to approach her. Maybe some part of me, the sick son of a bitch part of me, enjoyed watching her in secret. Maybe I wanted to make sure she really was worth my attentions. But probably both.
I come up to her in the coffee house, sitting down at her table. I've been here only once more after we participated in our staring contest, (which I won, by the way, because she was the one who stood up to leave) but that time I made sure I didn't even look her way. It was hard to, but I managed to completely ignore her and was out the door the moment I finished my coffee. It was worth it when I felt her gaze burning a hole in my back as I left. Yeah, I definitely riled her up that day. I made her crave my attention, made her wonder why I didn't even glance in her way, which was my intention.
Now, I would finally begin my pursuit of her. I have an inkling it wouldn't be the easiest thing I've ever done, but it would be worth it. I could make her mine, I have faith in that.
She glances up as I sit down, watching me closely. Her face doesn't betray any emotions but her eyes shine with curiosity and, if I'm correct, a little bit of smugness. I hold back a grin. Here goes nothing.
("Hi."
"So you finally worked up your courage to approach me, huh?")
She's smirking as she leans back in her seat and I have a feeling she's completely aware of how enchanted I am by her and she loves it. She's already driving me crazy with that little tilt of her mouth as she looks at me. That's why it takes me a moment too long to answer and then she's laughing softly, eyes twinkling.
("What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"
"I'm Tate."
"Hello, Tate. Wanna tell me what you want from me?"
"I think you know. I couldn't help but notice you and I had to talk to you. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
"Charming. But a little too sappy for my taste.")
I chuckle. She takes a sip of her coffee but her chocolate brown eyes never leave mine, the curious gleam in them still apparent. And me, I'm still plagued by one question in particular - I need to put a name to her face.
("I didn't catch your name."
"Because I didn't tell you."
"Are you going to?"
"How old are you?"
"Old enough."
"I doubt that. You're young, it's sweet that you've taken an interest in me but it just kind of makes me think of that old ABBA song, what is it called...
"Does Your Mother Know?"
"That, yes. See, I was a kid when it was a big hit in the seventies and you... your parents probably weren't even planning you yet."
"Age is just a number."
"The law doesn't agree."
"How do you know I'm not of age yet?"
"You're not, are you? That's why it took so long for you to approach me?"
"I wasn't scared."
"Mmmmh."
"I wasn't. And I can tell that you like the attention I'm giving you.")
She has no response to that because she knows I'm right. It makes me smirk, until she stands up and puts her laptop back in her bag, obviously getting ready to leave. Irrational panic rises in my chest, fearing that I scared her away and she won't come back to the coffee house anymore and I won't see her again. I could not have screwed this up so quickly, could I? I know she feels the attraction I feel for her too, I know it. She can try to run but she won't get far. Or at least I hope so.
Desperation makes me call after her, louder than intended but she answers me, at least.
("Your name, please."
"Violet.")
She doesn't turn to look back at me as she exits.
xxx
Violet.
Violet.
I test the name on my tongue, repeat it over and over again as I'm walking home.
Violet.
I imagine saying it to her, I imagine the name falling from my lips as I fuck her - or, more realistically, as I jack off tonight.
Violet.
It's perfect.
xxx
It's dark and raining outside when my father arrives home, effectively ending the comfortable freedom I had in the last two weeks. Setting his umbrella aside, he tells me he's brought his fiancé over so I can meet her, and I don't even have time to prepare before she walks in.
Not just anyone woman, but her. My woman. My mystery woman. Violet.
For a second I'm just simply overjoyed to see her again, my brain not yet catching up, but the grin freezes on my face when I realize what this means. It's her, his fiancé? It couldn't be. No, maybe I'm just hallucinating. No way I could be that unlucky, right?
But her face mirrors my shock, even if she tries to not let it show, nodding along to something my father is saying. I don't pay attention to him. I'm too occupied with cursing everything and everyone under the sun for putting me in this impossible situation, because for fuck's sake, she's not only engaged but she's engaged to my goddamn father. The thought is revolting. How is this possible?
She offers her hand for me to shake and I know she's not going to mention our earlier escapades, not to him, something I'm grateful for. I don't want him to know either. So I play along, shaking her hand, unable to ignore the rush of electricity coursing through me when her skin touches mine. The first time I touch her and it has to go like this... I find her eyes, observing her, and I know, I just know she feels it too. There's something else which catches my attention as well, the fact that she's wearing a shiny, huge diamond ring on her finger. Something she definitely wasn't wearing any of the times I watched her. I would have noticed it. Interesting.
Of course I can't ask her about it right now so I just smile and politely introduce myself while thinking that, damn it, I would rather take the hallucinations.
What a fucked up little family.
xxx
("You weren't wearing your ring when I met you."
"Yeah, so?"
"Why?"
"I don't like it. It's not my style. I only wear it around him."
"That's bullshit. Why do you have to wear a ring you don't like for his benefit?"
"Marriage is compromises.")
I sigh, rolling my eyes. Now I could start trying to convince her not to marry him but something tells me it's too soon for big speeches and heartfelt declarations yet. I don't think trying too hard is the way to get to her.
So instead I tell her the simple truth.
("Don't think just because you're marrying my father, this is over. I want you and I'm not giving up."
"You're gonna have to wait forever for me."
"Then I will.")
xxx
When I find out the wedding is in two weeks, I break a vase or two in the house. It's too soon and I know I won't be able to stop it or win her over in time. Thus, I'm doomed to chase after a woman who's married to my father. It doesn't make me feel less for her but it does make things more complicated and messed up, and just the thought of her in the arms of Hugo causes one of those vase's death.
She's the only one who comes to find the source of the commotion but when she sees what I'm doing, she just gives me a look and walks away. Great. I hope she thinks I'm a total psychopath now, just what I needed. I rub a hand across my forehead and kick the bedside table, ignoring the small ache in my toe.
What should I do now?
xxx
I decide to do the obvious: get to know her. Help her with wedding preparations. Talk to her, find out as much as I can about her. It's a start, for both of us. I have a feeling that no matter how attracted she might be to me, she's not going to give in just for the sake of sex. There's gotta be some kind of emotional connection between us too. And that works out perfectly for me, because I like her, I do. She's an interesting woman, quite easily the most interesting woman I've ever encountered in my life, and I want to get to know her. I want to know everything.
So over the course of the next two weeks, I find out many things about her. I learn that she works at home as a translator - French and Russian. The coffee shop I first talked to her is a place she often goes to work. She's forty-five years old, the same as my mother was, which is which is a little bit discouraging - not because I give a damn but because she might. She has a twenty-four year old son, (older than me, also a bit unnerving) named Gale. He's a result of a one night stand she had when she was young and she has no idea who his father is. She raised him all alone, with the help of her parents sometimes. Her parents, she has a complicated relationship with them. When she was about my age, they had a fallout, a huge fallout which ended up with them getting divorced a few years later. Apparently her mother had a miscarriage and her father cheated on her with his much younger student (oh-oh, the irony) and afterwards they were both too busy hating each other to be a parent to Violet. She says that by the time they got to the decision to get divorced, she was actually glad to see her parents split.
It's these and many other basic things I learn about her. I discover that her favorite color is green and she's a huge fan of Morrissey and Edgar Allan Poe. I find out that she wants to keep her maiden name, Harmon, after the wedding. No Mrs. Hugo Langdon or Violet Langdon. Which is great because I don't want my father to be the reason for her wearing our family name. She tells me many little things in our many conversations, and in return, I do the same. I tell her about how I used to run track and have piano lessons all because my mother made me. I tell her that my favorite color is black (or the color of her eyes) and that I love Nirvana. I tell her about my passion for birds. I even tell her all about Constance, and Addie and Beau, and how she's murdered them both. (Chased Addie into her death and smothered Beau.) I don't tell her that I actually killed her because I don't feel like she's ready for that yet but maybe someday.
We exchange stories, share our lives with each other and it's great. It's fucking fantastic, because we both feel like we can trust one another, confide in each other. I feel I'm getting somewhere with her, slowly but surely. The knowledge makes me fall asleep with a smile on my face every night after I jerked off, thinking only about her.
xxx
Unfortunately, the day of the wedding arrives sooner than I would have liked it. I'm forced to sit through it in my black tuxedo with a perpetual scowl on my face, watching as she walks down the aisle in her white dress - nothing big, unlike the rest of the wedding, she kept it simple and clean - and say her 'I do' to my father. I roll my eyes the whole time and turn away when they kiss. I so do not need that image burned in my brain for the rest of my life.
The reception is a bit more bearable. There's a lot of people, too much dancing and too loud music - bad music, on top of it - but the food is good and there's booze. So I tolerate it. I sit at one of the tables in the corner, all by myself, only having eyes for her the entire time. She looks kind of bored as well. Her smile is just a bit forced when she talks to the guests and accepts their good wishes, and her eyes don't really shine when she dances with her new husband, no matter how hard she tries to look happy. She doesn't love him. She's settling at best. It makes me sad because a woman like her shouldn't be settling for something less than she deserves.
I approach her at last, a glass of champagne in my hand to match hers, clinking our glasses together to get her attention. She turns around, her polite smile transforming to a cheeky smirk when she sees me.
("You look beautiful."
"Thank you. You look good yourself."
"A dance?"
"I don't think,-"
"Come on. No one will say anything if you dance with your new husband's son.")
She contemplates for a second, her eyes searching mine for any ulterior motives, but I had none besides wanting to talk to her and have her close. Dancing is a good excuse to hold her as close to me as I want to. With a small sigh, she nods and places her champagne on the table, holding her hand out for me. I take it without hesitation, familiar with the burning sensation I feel when our skins touch. Leading her to the dance floor, I'm unable to wipe off the huge Cheshire grin on my face. Dancing with a beautiful woman in my arms, even if it's her wedding to another man, life could be worse.
("Enjoying the party?"
"Sure."
"You don't seem so enthusiastic."
"I am. I'm just not one of those stupid, brainless brides, you know. I wanted a smaller wedding anyway. All these people here, I don't even know them."
"Hugo makes all the shots for you, doesn't he? That comprise thing, it doesn't seem like it's working out for you well."
"I wouldn't say that. I don't allow a man to tell me what to do, I lead my own life, do my own thing. It's just the wedding."
"Frankly, it sounds like you two have two different lives, want different things. Why did you marry him? Do you love him?"
"He could be worse. I gave up on love a long time ago."
"Bitter? Someone broke your heart?"
"Not really, as I never gave anyone my heart to begin with. It was enough to watch my parents struggle through their marriage, then all my friends and everyone I know. They're all so invested, all so desperate for love, and when it doesn't work out... they're heartbroken. So it's easier to just not expect anything from anyone, then you won't be disappointed."
"I don't know... I believe there is someone right out there for everyone, or at least for those who deserve it. You certainly deserve it. You deserve better than him."
"You don't even know him."
"I know he left us when I was four and never tried to contact us again. I know that even now, he still doesn't try to be my father. What I don't know is why you married him if you don't love him."
"When you've been with someone for a while, at my age, it just make sense. No one wants to be alone for the rest of their lives. So when he popped the question, I said yes. It's either that or break up."
"Are you scared of being alone?"
"No. Not scared. I just don't want to be. There's a difference.")
I spin her around and pull her closer than before, our chests pressing together. She gasps at my move. Our eyes lock together and something passes between us, our mutual attraction for each other heightening, our breaths mingling together. Her chocolate brown eyes darken with something that I'm sure is lust, and I bite down on my lips to keep from grinning. Her next word, a gasp, she's barely able to get it out.
("Don't.
"Don't what?"
"Don't look at me like that, it's not going to happen."
"You flirted with me, though, when we first met."
"I didn't."
"Oh, come on. Who are you trying to fool?"
"Fine. Maybe I did. There's nothing harmful in that. You're an attractive boy and anyone would have felt flattered to be the center of your attention. But I didn't know who you were then. And I assure you, even if you weren't Hugo's son, nothing would have ever happened between us."
"So you think I'm attractive?"
"Is that the only thing you heard?"
"Do you think I'm irresistible too? Insanely hot?"
"I do think you're very cocky."
"Only because I know you want me."
"Keep dreaming, boy.")
Predictably, she disentangles herself from me and walks away, but from a safe distance, she glances back. I grin. Gotcha, Violet Harmon.
xxx
It's around eleven o'clock when I wander downstairs to get myself a glass of water, and I come across Violet, sitting at the table with wine in her hand. She's all dolled up, fancy dress, fancy hair, and two plates on the table with some delicious looking food on them. The only light in the room comes from two burning candles. Like in the fucking movies...
But her facial expression is all wrong, sad and disappointed, instead of excited, and she's gulping down those glasses of wine like her life depended on it. I can already pretty much guess what happened, but I ask anyway so I can try to comfort her, my own thirst for water forgotten.
("Hey? What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"That's why you're all dressed up, drinking wine alone at a candlelit romantic dinner for two?")
She sighs, rolls her eyes and takes another gulp of wine, but after a moment of hesitation, she answers.
("He cancelled. I just thought tonight would be the night..."
"The night for what?"
"..."
"Violet?"
"We haven't had sex yet.")
She blurts it out the words and my eyes go wide. It takes a moment to even understand what she just said, let alone respond to that, because really... they didn't have sex? For how long? And how is it even possible? I mean if I was her husband... she would never go a day without sex again.
("You mean... since you got married?"
"No. I mean ever."
"But... what? How is that possible, you've been together for years, haven't you?"
"Yeah, and he always said he wanted to wait till marriage to make it 'special'.")
She uses the quote marks, a sneer on her face. I'm still shell shocked.
("You didn't find that suspicious?"
"Of course I did. But what was I supposed to do, force to have sex with me? Break up with him because he didn't?"
"What about your wedding night? Didn't you have sex then?"
"He said he was tired and had a headache."
"Oh, come on."
"I know. I just didn't want to fight on our wedding day so I let it go. Wanna know what I think? I think he's screwing other women, probably younger. Basically teenagers, I think that's what he's into. And he only married me so he could have his trophy wife to show off to others, but he's not really attracted to me. That's what his side whores are for. And I just foolishly thought, maybe I can seduce him. Make him want me. I miss sex, you know. So I dressed up, I made dinner, I'm wearing this hot red lingerie underneath that I know you would just die for, and he... he cancels.")
As if I didn't already think my father was a total asshole, this definitely didn't help matters. Hurting Violet, cheating on her, not having sex with her... it all seems so unspeakable to me. Why? Why would he do that? I can't understand. I don't really know what to say to comfort her either, so I just tell her the truth.
("He's an idiot if he doesn't want to be with you. You know, if I had you,-"
"Don't. Don't make this about you, please, don't use it to your advantage."
"You're right. I'm sorry. I won't."
"Screw it. If he can, I can. Have an affair, I mean."
"With me-"
"No. Not with you. You're too young."
"Could be a good thing.")
I shrug. She laughs. My lips curve into a smile - at least I cheered her up, somehow. That was my main intention. Her laughter dies down, but the small smile on her face remains, and she reaches out, twirling a strand of my hair with her fingers. I don't dare move, I even hold my breath, too afraid I'll scare her away. But she just grins one last time and stands up.
As I watch her walk away, all I can think about is that hot red lingerie she mentioned earlier.
xxx
It's the beginning of October but on a Sunday morning, I wake up to bright sunshine and unbearable hotness. Living in LA all my life, I'm used to this kind of weather, but I don't like it. I prefer the stormy, windy days, when everything is darker and duller, and the sun doesn't shine so bright. But I guess I'm out of luck lately. Hugo is home too, and he offers to take Violet - and after a moment of awkward silence, me as well - to the beach but she politely declines. I'm glad she does. A crowded, dirty pool full of people and screaming kids? I don't think I'll ever be in the mood for that.
Instead, she suggests to use the pool we have at home in the backyard, and because I really want to see her in a bikini, I support the idea. Of course when I agreed so willingly to participate in this "family moment", I didn't think of how easy it would be to spot my raging hard-on in my swimwear and that became a problem when I saw Violet. Truthfully, I don't even care if she sees my erection or not, - let her know the affect she has on me, let her crave me as well - it's Hugo I'm worried about. Because for one, that would be gross, and for two, I'm sure he'd have some questions for me I could not answer. Oh, I'm sorry, father, it's just that I have this huge crush on your wife and I want to fuck her seven shades of Sunday and seeing her in a bikini isn't really helping with that. Yeah, right. I don't think so.
The black bikini she's wearing is fairly simple, of course, not too small or revealing, but it's still enough to get your imagination going. Then again, with Violet, anything can get your imagination going. In the end, I have to think of tasteless, repulsive things - like Constance, just to mention one - to save myself the embarrassment and avoid a family drama. I haven't even won her over yet, I do not need Hugo butting his nose into our business. But she's watching me as well, I can feel her eyes linger on my bare chest when I pass her by. It makes me feel better. Fucking fantastic, to be honest. Hugo won't notice something small and meaningless thing like that, but I do, because to me, it means everything.
We spend about an hour, give or take, at the pool, Violet sunbathing while Hugo and I take turns to swim laps, before he gets bored with it and us. He goes inside with an excuse to make coffee, and then we're alone. She's on her stomach, a book in her hand, and I just can't resist the perfect opportunity to fuck with her a little. As quietly as possible, I stand up and head towards her. She doesn't notice me, not until I place my hand on her leg, my touch probably ice cold from the water. She jumps in surprise, tries to turn around to face me, but I hold her down, keeping her in place.
("Easy there, Vi."
"Tate, what the hell are you doing?"
"Just having a little fun. Relax, will you?"
"It's kinda hard to when your hand is on my leg, and GODDAMN IT, don't you dare try to go higher."
"So you're bothered by my hand on your leg? Does it make you want to do dirty things with me?"
"You wish."
"Obviously, I do. But I think you want this too.")
My hand, despite her protests and warnings, slides up higher to her thigh, and I can hear her breath hitch. I pause for a moment, but she doesn't try to move away. Yes, I'm holding her down with my other hand, but if she really wanted to, she could break free. I wouldn't force anything on her that she doesn't want. And that's the thing, she does want this. That's why she doesn't move. So encouraged, I continue. I don't even know what I'm really doing, just teasing her a bit, I guess. I stroke her skin, I draw shapes and patterns with my fingertips, watch her quiver and tremble under my touch. I don't see her face, but it's fascinating nonetheless, to get her like this. All under my control. I wonder how far she would allow me to go... would she allow me to get her off?
That thought in mind, I run my fingers up even higher, almost reaching the edge of her panties, when the moment is ruined. Hugo calls her name from the house and she scrambles to her feet and away from me quicker than I could even react. Damn. I had forgotten about him altogether. I suspect so had she, that's why she allowed me to even get this far. I sigh, rubbing my eyes in disappointment. Damn fucking Hugo, now I'll never know if she would have allowed me to touch her, really touch her. And I don't think she'll allow me close to her again anytime soon. She already can't get away from me faster as it is, muttering that the "coffee must be ready" without even looking at me.
Perfect. Perfect failure.
xxx
One day, I come home from school with a bruised lip, a bloody nose and a nasty cut on my cheek, and although I try to head straight to my room, she notices, of course. Initially, I didn't want her to see it but the way she fusses over me makes me change my mind. It's honestly kind of cute, the way she tries to make sure I'm okay before even asking about what happened.
A cloth in her hand, she insists on disinfecting the wound, examining my nose as well. Interestingly enough, she leaves my lips alone.
("Well, it's not broken, you're lucky."
"It has nothing to do with luck, the guy who did this honestly didn't know how to hit."
"So that's what happened? You got into a fight?"
"Yeah. He was an asshole. He thought he could tell me where I can or can't smoke."
"So you beat him up?"
"He threw the first punch. But basically, yeah."
"I suspect he looks far worse than you do."
"How do you know?")
She stops, stares at me for a moment with an unreadable expression. Then she goes back to what she was doing, cleaning my face.
("There's something dark and dangerous in you, Tate. I think when you explode... you really explode.")
For a second I'm convinced I'm screwed because she saw through me and all my facades, she saw the twisted, ugly person I really am and now she would never give me a chance. But she never stops dabbing the cloth against my cheek, doesn't give a disapproving, disgusted or fearful look, doesn't pull away from me. And I realize she's known this for a while. It wasn't a sudden revelation she came to when she saw me all bruised and beaten or when I told her what I did to that guy. She figured it out already, I'm not sure when or how, but maybe she's known it since day one. I wouldn't be surprised. The way I can see through her, the way I know she wants me, she can probably see through me just the same. And she's not running in fear. She's here, tending my wounds. She isn't scared of me or the darkness inside of me.
My lips curl up into a grin. I could kiss her right now. Instead, I tell her, ("Not around you. You're my light") and although she doesn't comment on my remark, I swear I can see her cheeks turning to a faint pink color. A blushing Violet Harmon, how endearing.
Soon, she finishes fetching me up and with her free hand, touches the wound on my cheek. ("There. Now you're good to go.") Her words are only a whisper, and I know I'm not planning to go anywhere right now. Not when the air between us is crackling with electricity, her hand is still on my skin and she's looking at me like she's only one insignificant excuse away from kissing me. I wait, patiently. If we are to kiss, I want her to make the first move. She has to, otherwise later on she'll make up a thousand excuses about how I was the one to kiss her and she was just shocked into kissing me back, and how it was a mistake she regrets. I won't have that. If she doesn't make a move, I'll just walk away and wait for another opportunity to arise. But then her eyes wander down to my lips and I know I won't have to wait. I'm not sure what brought this on so suddenly, but fuck if I care when she's leaning in towards me, her eyes closing. I meet her halfway and it's explosions.
Like tasting heaven. A personalized heaven just for me. I imagined kissing her a thousand times ever since the first time I saw her on the street, but unsurprisingly, my fantasies never even came close. Her lips, which faintly taste of cigarettes, move in perfect synch against my own, getting more eager and eager with each passing second, like she just can't get enough of me. The feeling is mutual. Her hand moves from my cheek to my hair, threading her fingers through the blonde strands, pulling on them quite roughly. I hiss against her lips in both pain and pleasure. I wonder if she knows I like it rough or if she simply likes it that way too. Maybe both. In response to the hair pulling, I bite down on her lip, my hands snaking around her waist, causing her to press against me tighter. I'm not aware of anything else besides her and the feelings she's giving me, and the only thing I'm able to think about is why we haven't been doing this sooner? But of course, all too soon it's over.
When I push for more, try to slip my hands up her shirt, she pulls away like she had been thunderstruck. Her face is flushed, eyes crazy with lust, and I notice with pride that her lip is bleeding from when I bit down on it earlier. Now we match, I think, licking my own bruised lip.
She takes deep, long breaths, rubs her hand against her face. I can already see her closing back up like a flower which only blooms once in a year, and even then only for a few seconds. She's pulling all her walls back up, ready to start resisting me again with full force. When she speaks, her voice is hoarse.
("We shouldn't have done that. I could be your mother, you do realize that?"
"But you're not. And you kissed me back. Actually, you started this."
"I have a son who's older than you. Your mother was the same age as me. It's not okay to do this.")
See? Told you she would care. Before I could say anything, come up with any reason to make her stay, she throws the cloth she's still holding in one hand on the kitchen shelf and storms away. Well. One step forward, two steps back.
xxx
The next day the principal requests a meeting with my parents and it's Violet who ends up going. (Of course.) That alone wouldn't bother me because I know Violet doesn't really give a crap that I beat up that other kid, but the principal's secretary is a fucking idiot.
("I'm here because of Tate Langdon. I have an appointment with Principal Montgomery."
"Oh, you're his mother, right?"
"Yes."
"No."
"..."
"Stepmother. I'm his stepmother.")
She repeats the word like she only just realized it, and maybe that's partially true. I know I haven't thought of it that way either. But unlike her, the revelation doesn't make me withdraw from her, so much so that she even refuses to look at me for the rest of the day. I don't care about that. But I guess it's easier for me, after all, she's the one who's married and she's the one who would be going to jail if anyone ever found out about us. (Not that there's anything to find out about, yet.) And she did marry Hugo, so some small part of her must care for him at least a little. I don't. I don't give two shits about him. It makes my situation a lot easier, but it doesn't make it easier to watch her pull away from me again. And that's what she does.
The principal goes on and on about how what I've done is unacceptable and it can't happen again and I'm going to be suspended for two weeks. (Perfect. More time to spend with Violet.) I don't really listen to him, paying attention to Violet instead. She doesn't look at me but I know she's aware I'm watching her. Her face is hard to read, but her posture is stiff and cold, hands clenched at her side, tapping her leg against the floor. She looks stressed and I wish I could make her feel relaxed for a while. Oh, I have plenty of ideas I could try to make her relax...
Through the whole meeting, she never once calls me by my name, always saying 'stepson' instead. As if she has to constantly remind herself. And while today is another step backwards, it gives me hope. Because if she has to keep reminding herself that I'm unavailable to her, then we're on the right track.
xxx
After the incident with the principal's secretary and that ugly word, stepson, she tries her best to ignore me for days. I admit, she's not bad at it either. She starts going out again to work, to the coffee house, I presume, but when I visit the place one day, she's not there. She must have anticipated me following her here and found a new place. When she's at home, she locks herself in her room most of the time, only going out to the bathroom. She even eats inside her room. It's hard to try to talk some sense into her like this. And I know what she's trying to do. She's building up her walls again, those walls I brought down in the past few weeks, so she can stand up against me stronger. I can't let that happen. I could start from the beginning, begin tearing her down again, but I'm impatient, I don't want to waste precious time anymore. So I have to come up with something. Shock her out of this state, it's the only way.
Thank god I know her schedule by heart now, because I'm going to need it for this next scheme.
xxx
Hot water rains down on me, burning my naked skin but I don't mind. Pain is pleasure. I'm waiting for her, inspecting her shampoos and shower gels in the meantime. Any moment now, she could arrive, but until then I busy myself with smelling her shampoo, apples, and pretending it's her hair and she's here with me in the shower, in my arms. Fantastic fantasies which, I hope, will come true one day. Or, if she's not up to it, I would be satisfied with regular bed sex as well, but something tells me it's not happening today. Today is just a step in that direction, if everything goes according to plan.
The bathroom door opens and there she is, blinking at me in shock, mouth agape.
("Oh my god."
"Hello, Violet."
"What are you doing in my shower?"
"I was curious what it looked like. How big it is, you know. Mine is kinda small. Couldn't fit two people. This though..."
"Tate."
"What? Are you blushing?"
"No!"
"That was awfully quick. You sound defensive."
"Fuck you."
"Do you want to?")
That's when she realizes she can't win this argument, or maybe she has no answer she wants to say aloud to that, and fuming, she storms away. I chuckle in amusement because I know perfectly well that her dilated pupils weren't the cause of her anger and I certainly didn't miss the way her eyes lingered on me either. She was turned on, plain and simple. Pissed and turned on.
Perfect combination.
xxx
The very next day, I find an envelope sitting on my desk, and perhaps the content of it shouldn't surprise after the stunt I pulled in the bathroom, but it does.
("What's this?"
"Do you like it?"
"Violet."
"I figured if you jerked off to thoughts of me every night anyway, you might as well have some new material.")
She's not even looking at me, her eyes still on the book she's reading until I slam my hand down on the table, the photos she gave me spilling out of the envelope, and she raises her eyes to meet mine, unaffected by my outburst. Perhaps it's a bit irrational to be mad, after all it's not like I don't like the pictures, oh I do, a lot, but it frustrates me because I know nothing is going to change still. She's not going to give in yet, maybe not for a while, and she made my suffering so much worse with this.
Payback is a bitch, huh?
("You gotta stop doing this."
"What?"
"Toying with me. Flirt with me then expect me to not act on my feelings. Give me nude photos of yourself then pull away again, like nothing happened. You want this, you want me, why don't you just admit it and give in?"
"Maybe I like you chasing me.")
Her answer is accompanied by a careless shrug and then her eyes are back to the book, letting me know without words that she's finished with our conversation. So be it then. I just have to try harder from now on.
I crouch down to gather the pictures from the floor - now that I have them, I'm keeping them. She was right, I do need some new material, and this is gonna come in handy tonight. Or... well, right now because even glancing at them briefly causes my dick to harden. When I stand up, I can see her watching me from the corner of her eye, a proud smirk on her lips. Of course, she loves knowing I think of her while I jerk off, the self-satisfied bitch. Her gaze wanders down to my pants and her eyes visibly darken when she sees the small bulge there, unconsciously running her tongue over her lips.
She's going to be the death of me.
She snaps her gaze back up when I let out a small groan, our eyes meeting, her book forgotten in her hands. She's burning a hole in me with the intensity of her stare, and I can just imagine the things running through her mind right now. Probably similar things I'm thinking of. Like wrapping her legs around my waist, pushing my hard cock inside her heat, making her scream until her throat is sore and she can't breathe...
I'm brought out of my fantasies by the whisper of my name, a quiet longing sound which leaves her lips. I'm not sure if she's even aware she said it, but either way, I'm more than satisfied to see how much I affected her as well. It's not just me and I always knew that, but it always thrilled me to realize it again and again.
It's my turn to smirk at her, holding up the pictures as I turn around to go and let her steam in her own sexual frustration for a while.
("Thanks for the pictures, Violet.")
As I leave, I can hear her blow out a long sigh of yearning, and I smile. Apparently, you can go far with Violet Harmon if you only give her some eye sex.
( la petite mort 2/2 )