Feel the fear and the pain, let it all in, and then let it all go

"I always liked dark hair." Tate lightly pinched a strand of Winona's silky hair between two fingers before letting it softly drift out of his grasp. The lock, slightly bouncing with the twist of a curl at the very end feathered across Winona's face, tickling the flesh of her lips where it rested. "The contrast makes your skin look like porcelain."

Winona smiled, comfortable just lying in Tate's presence after what seemed like eons of him being salty towards her. Eight days had passed since she'd gotten a glimpse at Michael's second complexion—a chalky white face with endless black holes for eyes. She still wasn't sure of what he was—of who he was—and, at this point, she was too afraid to even ask. So, she found herself in the old familiar place in which she had sought comfort over the years—lying next to the shaggy haired blond boy who seemed to be treating her with a more tender, cautious approach as opposed to the brash mockery of his ever present sarcasm.

They didn't speak of Michael. Winona knew this was intentional on Tate's part—he was completely comfortable with ignoring the boy's presence entirely, comfortable with pretending he never even existed. However, Michael Langdon was always in the back of Winona's mind, lingering like the lyrics to a sweet melody of a nearly forgotten memory.

Although she was unbelievably angry with him for plunging the serrated steel of an agonizingly sharp kitchen knife into her belly—it'd been nearly an eternity, (or so it felt), since she'd held him in her arms. Admittedly, she missed him. Abundantly so. She missed the warmth of his lanky legs as they nudged between hers beneath the sheets. She missed his squirmy self and the way he deeply sighed whilst unconscious, eyelids theatrically twitching as he vividly dreamt. Winona always wondered what went on in that pretty little head of his . . .

"You're thinking about him," Tate suddenly said, tone gruff and somewhat subtle. "About Michael."

Winona physically flinched at his accusation, bottom lip drawn between gnawing teeth. "Yes."

Hurt flashed in Tate's brown eyes like a bold streak of lightning, but instead of spewing some snarky insult, the boy threaded his long fingers throughout Winona's—almost as if he was afraid she was so slowly slipping away. She knew better than to overanalyze anything Tate ever said or did.

He's just lonely because Violet won't give him the time of day, Winona warily reminded herself, slipping out of Violet's cold, cozy bed as their digits detached.

Somewhere in the distance, Winona could have sworn she could hear the low crying whimper that she had grown familiar with. The invisible force nearly tugged her heart out as she remained steadily in place regardless of the pull she felt to comfort Michael.

It was like a shock to Winona's heart—almost like some clawed hand of a monster was reaching inside of her chest and squeezing. Unwillingly, Winona's little legs turned to goo, sending her tumbling to the carpet as her knobby knuckles buckled. Her palms broke her fall, a sudden, sharp sensation rippling through her chest as she released a vociferous cry, quivering hand raising to meet the very spot where her dead heart laid. Unsurprisingly, the organ failed to beat beneath her freezing fingers—yet, the powerful pounding within her chest felt like the beat of a drum, and actually managed to convince her that her heart had momentarily jump started.

"Maybe I'm evil because everyone I love leaves me."

Winona hadn't heard Michael's words—she had felt them. His hurt sliced into the core of her soul as if it were her own, and when she cried out with tears streaming down her stricken face, it was his pain she was drowning in.

"Even my Winnie left me."

"Jesus, Winona," Tate pressed, slipping off of the bed as he fell to his knees beside her. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Michael—he's in p-pain," Winona cried, her body heaving with sudden and dramatic sobs as Tate attempted to cradle her face in his ashen palms. "I have to go to him," she wailed, ripping away from Tate's crouching form as she gave in to the pull that so fiercely connected her to Michael. Winona had never experienced​ an agony so strong—not even the night she'd watched the light slowly fade from Jack Tennant's eyes.

The girl sloppily stumbled out the doorway, her fingers desperately gripping at the walls to offer her any support, whatsoever. She would be ripped in half if she didn't go—she would surely meet the true, sweet kiss of eternal darkness if she didn't find a way to soothe Michael's pain.

"If you go, don't you dare come back!" Tate spat, unmoving from his rigid position on the floor. His words were seeping with the venom of a poisonous snake, though his eyes betrayed his sadness. He would never be able to understand that she had to go.

"I'm sorry, Tate. I don't have a choice."

With that, Winona, quite literally, stumbled from the room, chest achingly heaving as her stomach turbently turned. The pain was borderline excruciating, but it seemed to slightly soften with every step she took.

His bedroom door was open, and the sight alone of the skinny, teenage boy beneath the wrinkled sheets nearly sent Winona to her knees once more. Her eyeliner-clad eyes were a smeared, smudgy mess—dark, dull orbs red-rimmed and veiny from her violent tears.

Michael's heart lurched at the simplistic sight of his girl, propping herself up against either side of the doorway. She was panting, as if she'd just ran a marathon, and she'd been sobbing.

"Winnie," the boy whispered, unraveling his limbs from the unwashed sheet. The soles of his feet met the creaky wooden floors, the surface sounding as if it were snapping beneath his weight as he rapidly approached an extremely weakened Winona.

"M-Michael," she stammered, the excruciating pain instantaneously vanishing the moment his fingers met her pale, pasty forearm.

An overwhelming essence of sheer, sweet relief consumed her to the very core, a sudden sigh slipping off of her lips. Winona nearly fell into his wide, open arms—trembling digits clawing at the nape of his pure cotton t-shirt.

It was utter peace—blissful, as if there was nary a care in the world. Winona imagined that this was how one felt when they discovered the place they were meant to be. For her, that place was in Michael's arms.

"Winnie, I'm so sorry–" Michael rambled, blinking back routine tears as he swiftly shook his head. Winona, however, refused to let him finish—for, that peculiar pull seemed to shift to something greater, something possibly passionate. Thus, her fingers greedily knotted within his unbrushed curls, nails nearly severing the skin of his skull as she pressed a desperate kiss to his mouth. Her body molded to his, midsections pressed firmly together as Winona deepened their kiss, sensually flicking her little pink tongue outward to lightly lick at his supple lower lip.

It was as if his touch was the antidote to her undying despair.

Michael groaned into her mouth, a needy, desperate sound that caused the girl to arch her back as their tongues finally began to massage against each other. Winona was quite literally unable to control herself any longer, practically making love to Michael Langdon with her mouth as a tight knot of need formed between her thighs. She ached for his touch more than she ever had with a man. Her every thought was consumed with the lustful fire of all of the things she wanted him to do to her, and she knew he could feel it. He could sense her dripping arousal like an animal in heat. Contrary to what he wanted to do, his hands were firmly planted against her hips—afraid to move as he grew hard against her leg.

Winona placed her burning palms against Michael's heaving chest in order to lead them backward onto the bed. The two stumbled, a mess of hungry lips and tangled limbs as they fell onto the dated mattress. It bowed underneath their weight, creaking obnoxiously, and they broke out into hushed giggles as they continued to steal small but meaningful kisses, palms lovingly cupping each other's flushed cheeks.

They became lost in one another's eyes as if they simply could not grasp the fact that they had ever spent a moment apart. Michael was hypnotized by the vast complexity of Winona's chocolate orbs as he discovered the golden flecks of honey that swam within her liquid pools of desire. He wanted to see what they looked like under the warmth of a saturated sunrise, and imagined that sunlight would only bring to life another dimension that he would hopelessly lose himself in.

"You're my light in the darkness," Michael tenderly whispered, threading his needy fingers in the back of Winona's hair as he desperately fused his lips to hers. He could feel the dainty, prodding tips of her fingers tugging his shirt upward as he moved to roll on top of her, straddling her wriggling frame as he cockily grinned against her wet mouth. In one swift motion, Michael rose upward, pulling his shirt over his messy mop of blond hair as he discarded the material onto the floor.

Blindly, her tiny hand collided with the soft, smooth flesh of his left peck—slightly sweaty and extending outward with every gasping breath. The glorious sensation of his racing heart briskly beat beneath her extremely frigid flesh, prompting arrays of goosebumps to flood the immediate area of his chest.

Their hot breaths intermixed in a series of weighty whimpers, Winona's pearly-white teeth lightly clamping down on Michael's lower lip. At this, he released a heightened grunt, eyelids flying open to view her amused expression before slowly slipping closed once more. Oh, his Winona—she was just so easy to get lost in. She could swallow him up whole and he wouldn't mind in the slightest.

Winona's hand still firmly cradled his fidgeting peck, heart dreamily drumming along the buzzing flesh of her dainty digits. After several stagnant moments of mindless, innocent kissing—Michael's fingers curled around her bony wrist, assertively tearing her touch away from his racing pulse, his heart nearly leaping from his chest at the absence of her hold. Anxiously and rather shakily, he tightened his grip around her wrist before leading it south, down-down-down towards his throbbing self, weakly concealed by the thick fabric of his pajama pants.

Winona impulsively gasped the moment her hand met him, eyelids flying open in utter shock as the seemingly confident man flattened his hand against hers, securing her touch against his eager excitement.

Awkwardly, their mouths slightly separated, equally wild gazes meeting as Michael ran the edge of his index finger along her smooth knuckles, as if out of pure, pristine reassurance.

"A-Are you . . ?" Winona wondered, failing to complete her empty inquiry. Unblinking, her stare steaded upon a nodding Michael, features flushed an amorous scarlet, curly blond locks thrown astray and laying within his eyes.

Greedily, Winona smashed her lips against his hot, gaping mouth—hand aggressively tearing out of his hold. Puzzled, Michael raised a single, bushy brow, a sharp breath hitching in his throat as the surprisingly strong woman linked her legs around his wide hips. Before he could question her shift in mood, she'd managed to flip him over onto his back, tepid groins colliding as he immediately submissed.

"Just tell me to stop if I go too far." Winona said, placing a soft, feather-like kiss to Michael's lips. Slowly, he nodded—wide, doe-like eyes keenly watching her every move as she slowly sank to the sight of his evident arousal.

"O-Okay," he stuttered. Suddenly, the amount of oxygen in the bedroom seemed to dissipate, and he found himself nearly gasping for air as Winona fumbled with the waist of his pajama pants. Michael had already claimed fistfuls of the pure, lily-white sheets—upper half propped up by his elbows as he intently watched Winona's every move. For a split second, a flicker of worry consumed his core as the clothing covering his manhood fell lower and lower, nearly revealing the most intimate part of him to the only person whose ever truly cared for him.

Unwanted worries riddled his usually tame thoughts, a series of doltish concerns like: What if she doesn't like it? What if she's disappointed? What if she compares me to Jack?

Michael managed to get so wrapped up in his worrisome wonders that he'd failed to notice the absence of his clothing, material bunched up near his ankles. At the sight of Winona nearly gawking at his nude form, he nearly fainted entirely—in fact, it seemed as if the flustered fella was actually beginning to hyperventilate.

Worriedly, Winona's soft, shy stare met his ebbing eyes—a shaken sea of blue colliding with a somber amber as she cradled his face within her palms.

"Michael," she slowly spoke, grazing her thumb against his puffy bottom lip. "We can stop, if you're not comfortable–"

"I am." He proudly pressed, nodding curtly before leaning forward to give her a small smooch.

Winona smiled, kissing him once more before returning to her spot, just barely hovering his crotch. Heart inexplicably racing and vision temporarily blurred, Michael collapsed onto the mattress, his elbows giving out as Winona's impeccably icy touch met his pulsating cock. Just from the cold touch alone, he openly gasped—eyes screwing tightly shut as his knuckles flushed a chalky white from his death grip on the sheets. Hell, she'd hardly even touched him, and the feeling in itself was otherworldly.

He couldn't open his eyes—he just couldn't. He knew damn well that the sheer sight of Winona—fondling—him would be enough to send him completely over the edge. Nobody had ever touched him this way, made him feel this way. Hell, not even he had touched himself like this, so the feeling was so categorically fresh and raw that he'd nearly become overstimulated from her very first feel.

"Oh, Wi–nona," Michael whined, his tone generously shifting halfway through her name as her tongue unanticipatedly flattened against the base of him. Boldly, she licked a thick, wet stripe up his length—earning an extremely satisfied moan from the squirming man.

Giddily, a grinning Winona engulfed him entirely, earning a deep, guttural groan from a wriggling Michael, who just couldn't seem to keep still. She found the entire scenario ridiculously adorable—the way his forehead crinkled and brows knit tightly together. Pleading pants pranced along his pretty pink tongue, hips bucking unintentionally upwards as Winona deepthroated him. One hand abandoned the safety of the sheets, trembling fingers twisting around her locks as he gently tugged.

The girl quickly became carried away, swept up in the erotic haze of the moment as she quite suddenly pulled off of his length, swirling her nimble tongue around the tip of his erection as she lightly sucked. Incoherent chops of words were tumbling from Michael's lips, and Winona's lids flickered open to find him staring at her—slack jawed with his eyebrows pulled together in concentration. In one agonizingly slow movement, she hollowed out her cheeks, saliva steadily dripping from her greedy mouth as she pushed him entirely inside—until the head was flushed against the back of her throat. Unwilling tears spilled from the corners of her eyes at the unbelievably full sensation, and the girl let out a surprising, yet very satisfying gag, coating the entirety of Michael's pulsating shaft in a torrent of slimy saliva.

"Oh God, I think I'm gonna–"

Michael's head flew backward as the most sensual groans Winona had ever heard emerged from his lush, parted lips. He seemed surprised, almost, to be finding his bountiful release as it flooded the cavity of Winona's throat, fingers desperately–violently–tugging at her head full of messy hair as his hips bucked upward with each powerful wave of pure pleasure.

Winona moaned encouragingly, rubbing her hand up the expanse of Michael's thigh while gently pulling off of him. Swallowing, the girl carefully wiped her messy lips as a giggle bubbled from her mouth. Michael was in a state of absolute nirvana, but his demeanor alarmingly shifted when he tugged his boxers upward, his attentive eyes hurriedly fixating on a very puzzled Winona.

"I didn't–um–mean to do that in your mouth, I–"

Winona found the reason for Michael's shift in behavior to be the cutest most amusing thing she had ever witnessed. Giving him such pleasure—feeling him come so completely undone inside of her had been the single most exhilarating thing she had ever experienced. In an attempt to silence his worry, Winona slowly crawled closer to him, lightly pressing her forefinger over his mouth before lovingly replacing it with a tender, lingering kiss.

"It's okay," Winona soothed assuringly, pressing her forehead against his as she peered deeply into the vast pools of his azure orbs. "I wanted you to do that."

If it was even possible, Michael's eyes became wider as an uncontrollable, sweet smile bloomed over his perfectly constructed face. Winona found herself thinking that every piece of sculpted art that served to depict the optimal form of male beauty had been modeled in his image.

"Oh," Michael mumbled appreciatively as he trailed starving smooches from Winona's exposed neck and all of the way down to the hem of her brand new top. "I missed you so much. And, I'm so sorry about–"

"Don't," Winona clipped. "Don't speak of it again." The girl shook her head as if to banish the unpleasant memory, and Michael took her words as an indication that she actually understood his barbaric behavior—that she would indulge him with the knowledge that he had no reign over his murderous impulses. However, his assumption could not be further from the truth. Winona's wary eyes closed in prayer to whomever would listen with the singular plea that she could somehow help Michael control whatever evil lurked inside of her darling suitor. Tenderly–hopefully—her lips brushed against his, noses delicately touching as her trembling palms cradled his baby face.

The kiss lasted but a moment before a foreboding chill crept up the expanse of Winona's spine, a haunting, impossible breeze stirring the silence of the room with an evocative whisper of a command.

Open your eyes.

Winona almost did not want to obey, but found defiance to be impossible. Her lids flickered open, slowly at first—only to gradually accelerate in speed at the sight of the hauntingly familiar face flickering mere inches away from hers.

Just like before, Michael's soft, handsome features dissipated—consummately masked by that ghastly, white-faced demon she'd seen briefly before. His pale, icy-blue eyes were overridden with a stark black hue, indifferent and wicked—as if he could see into the deepest parts of her very soul.

She'd only seen the dreaded face for a split second—accompanied by the deafening shriek of what appeared to be some sort of woman—and she'd nearly toppled sideways, her entire frame flinching backwards and away from the evil being beneath her. A fearful cry grazed her lips, palms flattening against the curve of her jaw as she scrambled backwards toward the foot of the bed, eager to escape the entity that had consumed the man she loved.

The man she loved.

Her eyes squeezed shut, a desperate attempt to ward off the agonizing images of that wretched, white face. Petrified pleas fumbled along her lips, and she'd nearly fallen directly off of the bed at the faint feel of Michael's fingers along her wrists.

"Winnie?" Michael called, gently yanking her palms away from her face. Weakly, her eyes opened, softened stare settling upon the worrisome boy before her, eyes widened in wanton abandon. "What is it? What's the matter?"

Winona vigorously shook her head, blinking back tears as the words emerged rushed and choppy, failing to form sentences. The puzzled person latched around her wrists merely sighed, wrapping his arms tightly around her shoulders as he held her close—the soothing beats of his heart against her skull instantaneously calming her. Thus, they remained like this for several generous moments, Michael's slender digits gliding through the knotted locks of Winona's hair, his chin resting atop her head. Reassuring phrases blessed her ears from the completely calm bloke—all the while, a menacing, mocking smirk slithered along his generously sized lips, heart nearly skipping an entire beat as he replayed the image of a thoroughly terrified Winona over and over within his mind.

"It's okay," he softly said, pressing a feather-like kiss to her hair. "I'm here."