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Tru Luv Fanfiction |
Last Wish
by: Rolymurp
Note: This bit of fic is a tad disturbing. Depending on how you feel, you can either take it as the official ending (which is how I see it), or you can consider it an alternate ending. Either way, if it pisses you off, feel free to blame Laura Smith, since it would never have been written without her deliciously evil influence.
A strong kick sent the door to the honeymoon suite flying open and it smashed into the wall as a pair of legs, clad in black tuxedo pants, strode inside. The groom set his new wife on her feet, the lines of her long, satin gown gradually falling back into place after being crushed as he carried her.
“I think we’re going to have to pay for that wall,” she cooed as he turned back from closing the door and approached her, licking his lips hungrily as he finished unbuttoning his dress shirt and slid out of it, tossing it on the floor.
“We made plenty of money tonight,” he whispered, his hands encircling her slim waist and pulling her tight against him. He licked her lips as if requesting entry to her mouth, murmuring when she granted it and his tongue slid along hers, tasting the sweetness of the champagne she’d had before they’d come upstairs.
She chuckled softly into his mouth as he continued to kiss her, his fingers sliding up her back to work at the intricate pearl buttons of her gown.
He broke off the kiss, moaning in frustration as the tiny nubs evaded his large hands, thwarting his attempt to undress her. Spinning her around, he groused, “We should have brought one of the bridesmaids with us.”
“Honey,” she murmured, a teasing tone to her voice. “While I’m by no means a prude, I don’t think having a threesome on our wedding night would be very romantic.”
His laughter erupted into a cheer of satisfaction when the buttons began to obey, sliding through the hooks of thread so he could part the fabric to reveal the back of her merrywidow. The dress fell smoothly to the floor and he grunted as she stepped out of it and turned to face him, her darkly tanned flesh contrasting appetizingly with the white lingerie she wore. Thigh high stockings encased her impossibly long legs, held up by lace garters that were attached to the merrywidow. Matching white thong panties covered the dark triangle of hair at the apex of her thighs.
She smiled as his eyes raked over her, watching him with satisfaction as he became visibly more aroused, the intoxicating effect of her stronger than that of any alcohol he’d had.
“You’re perfect,” he stated simply, his voice raspy with desire. He embraced her again, this time more slowly and carefully, as if she were made of porcelain. His hand went to the back of her neck, holding her still as he kissed her, his tongue gently brushing the surfaces inside her mouth, stroking against each cheek, the roof, her tongue.
Her hands slid down the hard planes of his chest, converging at his waist to unfasten his slacks. She pushed them down along with his silk boxers, and curled her hand around his thick shaft, her palm rubbing against the moisture at the tip as the fingers of his free hand sought out the liquid heat between her legs, massaging the pink flesh through her panties until the satin was saturated.
They panted and groaned together through their kisses, their waists inching closer, not wanting to prolong the absence of contact for another second.
He pulled back with a shuddering sigh and stepped out of his pants as she unfastened the garters and slid her panties down her legs, frantically trying to kick them off as they caught on the peau de soie pumps she still wore.
He knelt down to remove them, throwing them aside before running his hands up the smooth silk that covered her legs and clutching the soft skin of her ass. He pulled her toward him, her glistening flesh beckoning his skillful tongue as she moaned above him. He lapped greedily at the moist skin, stroking her clit with his tongue before sliding it back to dip inside her.
She writhed and whimpered as he feasted on her, the pleasure she was receiving unable to suppress her longing to feel his cock inside her; neither his firm tongue nor his deft fingers adequate to satisfy that aching need.
“Pacey,” she pleaded, her voice a desperate whine.
He pulled back and stood, wiping his mouth on his hand before clutching the back of her thighs and lifting her, carrying her to the nearest wall and holding her against it as he pressed into her. She gasped softly in relief as he filled her, his grip loosening so that she slid down his cock, burying it to the hilt.
He thrust inside her rapidly, growling as her legs wrapped around his waist, urging him even deeper.
“Pacey,” she repeated, this time in a soft, questioning whisper.
“What?” He gasped, freeing a hand to massage her breast, his thumb and forefinger pinching the tightened nipple.
“The bed,” she murmured, sucking his lower lip into her mouth. “We should at least try to use it.”
“We will,” he promised as he bent his head down, his tongue darting out to paint her throat with moisture. “Later.”
She moaned as his hand left her breast to head south, his thumb finding and circling her clit. “Please?”
He sighed in resignation, putting his arms back around her and carrying her, his cock still trapped by her tight muscles, to the door of the bedroom.
She nibbled on his earlobe as he pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness. “I did some special decorating for us,” she explained, smiling as he reached over and flipped on the light.
She hit the floor with a harsh thud, the carpeting doing little to cushion the blow. She cried out in pain, looking up at Pacey angrily as she attempted to get to her feet. “What...” she stopped talking, stopped moving, as the sudden paleness of his face, the anguished contortion of his features, sent a jolt of fear through her.
“What?” She repeated, her voice small and childlike. She turned toward the bed, her gaze suddenly obscured by his quick hand shielding her face.
“Don’t look, Jo,” he ordered, his palm tight against her eyes. “Don’t.”
“Pacey,” she said irritably, shoving him away and turning as she stood.
The body lay naked and still on the bedspread, the gun resting in its hand upon its chest. There seemed to be blood everywhere, not only from the large head wound, partially obscured by the pillow, but also from the numerous cuts on the skin. Slits drawn into the wrists, the thighs, the chest and stomach. The blood had flowed easily onto the surface of the bed, thick lines of it painting several of the rose petals Joey had painstakingly positioned there. There was blood on the other hand, too. It had dripped down from the wrist, dotting the papers just beyond it; papers it had clearly been holding.
Joey screamed, the high-pitched sound regressing into a low moan of fright and shock before she fell to the floor in a faint, quieting completely.
Pacey approached the bed warily, choking back the bile rising in his throat as he stared at the tableau. He scrutinized the facial features, knowing that he recognized him; he’d known him immediately, he just hadn’t wanted to admit it. His shoulders slumped and he looked away, focusing on the familiar papers by his hand. The first was a newspaper clipping; the announcement that had run in the Capeside weekly paper a few short months earlier, declaring the upcoming nuptials of one Pacey Witter to one Josephine Potter. The clipping covered the text of the thick paper behind it, but Pacey didn’t need to see it to know it was a wedding invitation. An invitation to the one person they knew wouldn’t come. A person who could never have known that her despondent friend would take it to use it for such an alarming display.
Moving slowly, as if he were under water, Pacey went to his wife, easily lifting and carrying her back to the living area to lay her on the couch. He gathered his slacks from the floor and pulled them on before walking to the phone and dialing 911.
Once assured that help was forthcoming, he rooted around in a closet for a blanket, draping it over Joey then moving her dress to an empty chair. She stirred slightly but did not wake, the shock that had taken her consciousness apparently strong enough to keep her sleeping well beyond the confines of a simple fainting spell.
He forced himself to walk back to the room, to stand in the doorway and observe the grotesque exhibition that had been prepared for him. He didn’t dare turn his head or even blink to remove the sight of it, steadfastly staring at what was left of the person he’d known.
It had, after all, been Jack’s last wish.
The End