jottings: im not sure how i feel about this but. oh well. rewatching asylum reminded me that lana winters is my queen, and lana/grace totally could've worked in episode two.
notes 1: takes place sometime right after tricks and treats.
notes 2: title/lyrics from lana del rey. consider ahs disclaimed, yo.

kiss me hard before you go

summertime sadness.

;;

the first time she kisses you, you taste cheap cigarettes and bitterness.

"i don't trust you," grace says absently, her accent american and rolling off her tongue.

"i know," you respond. you pluck the cigarette easily from her skeleton fingers and place it between your lips. breathe. inhale, exhale.

"i don't forgive you." her eyes are steel and her voice harsh. she takes the cigarette back.

"i know," you say, blinking once.

grace's chapped lips split a smile, a drop of blood seeps from the corner. "you're very bad at this, winters." she takes a drag from their dwindling cigarette and the white paper comes away smeared with red.

you don't care.

inhale. exhale.

(there's something you should remember.)

you grit your teeth and push back your hair, but your fingers graze your temples too hard, you feel the lightning explode in your skull again and—fuck fuck fuck—it hurts.

a surely god awful sound slips from the back of your throat, and you didn't mean it to be that loud, but somewhere behind you, pepper emits a startled yelp and one of the orderlies rushes to calm her down.

but your noises won't stop coming, and you feel wetness on your cheeks again.

your palms press down firmly, heels of your hands digging into the burns that aren't there anymore—there's something your should remember. but you don't.

so you cry.

grace's protrubent eyes are wide because you're making a scene, and you know you need to be quiet, be fucking quiet.

"shit—lana, shut up," she hisses, her hands prying yours away. Your cheeks are cold for a split second before grace's warm warm hands replace your cold ones.

she crushes your lips together. you knot your fingers in her messy hair, pull her closer—you need her so much closer as you sob helplessly into her open mouth.

when she pulls away, the pinpricks of blood are smeared over her lips.

she smiles red; you smile back.

the dwindling cigarette finds its place between grace's lips.

you are both silent. your tongue darts out. your lips taste of iron, of someone else's blood.

it doesn't bother you the way maybe it would have before, and you don't know what to make of that.

your fingers twitch instinctively for a pencil. grace offers you the last smoke instead.

"for you, mon cherie," she says. her accent is french again.

you take it.

"we're fucked," you muse finally. your hands are shaking.

grace laughs bitterly. all she can say is Briarcliff.

there is a pause—and you kiss her again.

and she kisses you back.

and you know you are reckless.

yet, with grace's too thin frame tucked tightly against you, you can't find the will to regret it

but your head hurts.

oh. your head hurts.

sister jude comes for you in the morning, and you won't remember a thing.