Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/583537.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      American_Horror_Story
  Relationship:
      Violet_Harmon/Tate_Langdon
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Rape/Non-con_Elements, Oral_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-12-05 Words: 8589
****** Flickers ******
by pheromones
Summary
     How can you fix something when you yourself are already beyond
     repair?
Leave me out with the waste
This is not what I do
It's the wrong kind of place
To be thinking of you
It's the wrong time
For somebody new
It's a small crime
And I've got no excuse
Damien Rice, '9 Crimes'
The dress was draped on the back of her desk chair; all aged off white lace,
moth eaten satin, loose beading, and yet still alive enough to give Violet the
stare down as she laid on her stomach, smoking a Marlboro in an attempt at her
best Mia Wallace impression (Save for the OD-ing, which had already checked off
her list). It was a beautiful dress, long and old from the 1920s belonging to
poor, beautiful Nora Montgomery that she probably wore about the house while
directing girls to the basement for their abortions. Back when a woman's
wardrobe was limited to dresses and skirts, Nora's dress found itself at dinner
parties, swishing along to the Charleston, dropping to the ground as her
husband brought her to bed, and performing various other duties required of
Roaring Twenties female clothing. One day, Nora probably sat by the fire place
in that dress, contemplating her decaying life in the house Charles had built
for her, smoking and taking swigs of bootleg liquor between sobs. The fabric
still held the memories of tears, dead babies, drugs, and more of everyone's
favorite things.
Violet had found the dress lying on her unmade bed as she walked into her room
after her first day back at shitty Westfield High School, throwing her backpack
across the room upon sighting the new addition to her wardrobe. There was a
little note on top of the skirt:
Violet,
Found this up in the attic. It belonged to Nora Montgomery but it's sadly not
the one she shot herself and her husband in. That would've been pretty fucking
awesome to find.
Meet me in the basement after your father leaves. Wear this. I think you'll
look beautiful in it. We're going to have some fun tonight.
Tate
Violet had scoffed at it at first, not because she didn't find Tate's surprise
unworthy but because she found his attempt to woo her quite amusing in the
sense that it was pretty goddamn schmaltzy and old Hollywood-ish. But he was
right; the dress was beautiful, although frayed and dusty from living up in
that fucking attic for the past eighty years. It was nearing six, and her
father would be leaving to talk to the doctors who were treating Vivien at the
mad house within the next five minutes. To be honest, Violet didn't know how to
feel about the way her family was falling apart. There was a burden of guilt
for lying weighing on her shoulders that wanted to drag her to the bottom of
the apathetic sea. But at the same time, Tate has his hand wrapped around her
arm to keep her from drifting away from him. She was caught in some kind of
tragic Shakespearean emotional limbo of guilt and love. Lie for the boy she
loved or tell the truth for the mother she couldn't stand. She still couldn't
stand her mother and her band-aid pregnancy, but there were mixed feelings
about whether she made the right choice in claiming Vivien was batshit insane.
But teenaged love is a straightjacket on the mind, taking a hold of naivety and
throwing it into a padded room to have shotty medication shoved down its
throat. What critical thinking Violet did have left she used to debate that
decision in her subconscious, and it was gnawing at the back of her head. But
her heart screamed Tate, Tate, Tate, TATE. People were right, the brain and
heart really can't agree.
Violet took another long drag from her cigarette. She and Tate hadn't had the
opportunity to 'get busy' all week and it was agony. After finally having
pretty fulfilling sex, Tate was on her mind even more often than before. There
had been plenty of steamy kisses between them, but her body ached for his
fingers and cock to touch her again, although she was smug about the way she
acknowledged it. When they couldn't lock lips or slip hands under each other's
shirts, Tate always found a way to let Violet know he was still around, like
leaving a little daisy on her pillow or writing things on her chalkboard (the
latest chalkboard musing was a friendly reminder for Violet not to cut
herself). He was pretty sweet, not a fuck and go kind of guy, hmm, ghost, uh,
whatever, nevermind.
Violet recalled what he had told her in the attic a couple of weeks ago, that
if she told the ghosts to 'Go away', then they would. Why hadn't she whispered
the phrase under her breath when she and Vivien found themselves in the car
with the ghosts of those two nutty cult members who broke in? It would've saved
for a lot shit load of troubled. But hindsight was useless in any situation.
What if Violet told Tate to 'Go away'? Would he disappear? Sure, Tate already
had the ability to appear behind corners, vanish from the darkness, and bypass
locked doors, but Tate wasn't the same as all the other lost souls the house
contained.
The cigarette was starting to burn at the filter, only allowing for one more
decent drag before Violet would be sucking in ash. She took the final inhale,
attempting to fill her senses with as much of that intoxicating smoke as
humanly possible, and blew it out a'la Mr. Caterpillar with his sweet-ass
hookah style. The smoke rose to the ceiling and dissipated like the happiness
of two miserable people in an equally miserable marriage. Violet contemplated
pulling out another cigarette, but the sounds of Ben shouting, "Don't destroy
the house Vi, I'll be back in an hour or two!" and the front door slamming shut
made her reconsider the urge.
Violet took another long look at Nora's dress as she flicked the cigarette butt
across the room, missing the trash barrel by about five feet. "Let's get this
party started I guess…"
The dress was a pretty good fit, although she didn't fill the bust area out as
well as its previous owner did. The dip into the chest just revealed the flat
tops of her small breasts, and had she been a couple cup sizes larger, the
dress would've made her a knockout. It was pretty nonetheless, with ivory
beading across the bustier and long, lacy sleeves that draped past her thumbs.
The skirt, satin with a mix of lace and beading, skimmed the floor, giving the
illusion she was floating or walking on water. A dress like this would still
run in the hundreds of dollars today, give or take some due to all the frayed
edges and missing beads. Courtney Love could easily have rocked the dress back
in the grunge era without a problem. Old things were beautiful to Violet, which
was why she preferred flea markets and thrift stores to malls and Rodeo Drive.
She trekked down the stairs after deeming herself satisfied with the fit of the
dress, careful of her Converse not to step on the too long fabric that would
result in a rather painful fall down the stairs. The house was quiet, save for
the sound of her sneakers squeaking along the hardwood floor. Moira must have
left along with Ben she supposed. Good, less of a chance of her getting caught
with Tate's hand up her, uh, Nora's, dress. Wonder if getting fingered in a
dead woman's dress was considered offensive to ghosts? Probably. Well in that
case she was going to be fucked in every sense of the word.
The basement still sent little shivers down Violet's spine. She still hated
having to go into the basement after that ghost flash mob drove her to down
thirty prescription pills. The basement was more or less the rec room for all
the departed spirits the house ate. At least she now had the ability to make
them 'Go away', which gave her back her original sense of courageous intrigue
towards the Murder House. As long as the ghosts couldn't hurt her, there was no
immediate danger. As long as Tate was there by her side, nothing would try to
claw her organs out from the nice confines of her body.
"Tate?" Violet called out as she reached the bottom of the creaky basement
stairs. Fuck, it was cold down there. Thank God the bustier was too loose
around her chest, or Tate would get quite the peep show. She took a few steps
forward to flick on the light switch, a bit apprehensive if any ghoul decided
to get up in her face and make her pee all over some dead woman's dress. "Could
you at least turn the light on, jerk?"
As brave as Violet had prepared herself to be, she nearly jumped out of skin
when she saw Tate rocking back and forth in that creepy ass rocking chair like
a senile old pervert. His face broke out into that irritating delinquent grin
upon seeing her clamber against the cement wall in fear. Tate couldn't help
himself. He had been diagnosed as bipolar at some point in his life; at least
he thought so, as he was diagnosed with so many fucking things.
"Scared ya this time," Tate gave Violet a quick look over from head to toe,
noticing she had obeyed his directions. "You look ravishing darling." His
imitation of a British accent was pretty piss poor.
Violet held her hand to her rapidly beating heart before stomping over to whack
Tate in the shoulder with a closed fist. "Yeah, go fuck yourself." He only
giggled maniacally before pulling the girl into his lap, who was all steam
coming out the ears and furrowed brows of annoyance like a Looney Toon. She was
so cute, even with her little face all scrunched up with fury whilst trying to
knock the wind from his lungs with her beating fists. He had seen puppies more
aggressive looking.
The protests stopped as soon as Tate's hand took a firm squeeze of the junction
where hip met thigh and planted a big smooch onto Violet's burning cheek,
causing her to huff out a hot breath and lower those beating fists. She turned
and gave him that look in her eyes that curdled milk, but the expression became
somewhat more amused as Tate began rocking in the chair again.
"The dress looks beautiful." He pulled the fabric of the skirt into his hand,
rubbing the material between his fingers in a teasing manner.
"I don't have the right tits for it. But yeah, I can totally see myself
sacrificing virgins and shit in this." Or having weird Frankenstein babies,
whatever comes first.
Tate reached up and pulled the bustier back to get a peek at Violet's very bare
breasts. "So you're going braless now? What am I to do with you Violet?" He
gave another maniacal laugh as Violet slapped his inquiring hand away from her
chest. "Feisty today, are we?"
"Can it Tate," She pushed his smug face away with her palm, which she probably
should have licked if he was going to act like a ten year old. "Just because
you've handled my boobs doesn't make them your property." Violet adjusted
herself on his lap, fixing the skirt of the dress, as it was getting twisted
around her legs. "So, what's this I hear about 'fun' tonight?"
Tate pushed his feet off the ground to make the chair rock again. "You know,
fuck with ghosts, pray to Satan, kill a few animals…" His girlfriend smirked in
response and continued to finger the beading on the bustier. "Or we could pop
open your parent's liquor cabinet, put on some Kurt Cobain, and engage in
sexual relations?"
Violet breathed a laugh. "You sure you don't want to read some of that gay
porn?" She pouted her lips at him. Those full, kissable, lovely lips that Tate
just wanted to corrupt and violate. Huh, they'd completely skipped all the cock
play and dove into the sex. He'd have to fix that eventually, but at the moment
he was hungry for Violet. Tate B had found Nora's dress and thought Violet
would look beautiful in it. Tate A thought the dress would look even better on
the floor, staring at him as he fucked Violet over the Doctor's sofa like an
animal.
"Tempting, but instead of reading all that smut, why don't we go read up on
your father's patient files? We can see just how good of a shrink the old
Doctor really is. Plus, I want to see what he's been writing about me." Tate's
face became mischievous as he threw the bait out. He had always imagined having
his way with Violet in Ben's office since the day he met her. He would have
visions of himself pounding in and out of her on the desk, licking her pussy on
the armchair, and just flat out defiling the good Doctor's little girl in every
corner of the room.
Violet considered the offer for a moment. Sure, her father was about as
emotionally incompetent as the average statue and couldn't keep his dick in his
pants but did he really deserve to have two obnoxious teenagers digging through
his professional life, a.k.a. the only area he hadn't completely fucked over
yet? The short answer to this was a resounding yes. Sure, Violet felt a teensy
bit bad, but the majority of her conscious told the minority to sit down and
please shut the fuck up.
"We've got about two hours to spare. Just don't leave anything out of place or
you'll be in a load of trouble." Violet wiggled herself off of Tate's lap in
order to take him up on the suggestion for their date night. Sit in a fancy
dress and read about the lives of various the psychotics (and Tate) her father
treated? That sounded like it could be her new favorite hobby.
Tate stayed seated for a second to admire the way Nora's dress looked from the
back wrapped around Violet's figure. Yes, two hours would be plenty of time to
satisfy his naughty needs.
"Woah, I didn't know my Dad worked with so many goddamn weirdoes. He treats
enough people to start his own bullshit Maury Povich talk show," Violet
fingered out a sheet of paper from the stack of files in her lap. "Listen to
this, 'Patient displays a strong, anxiety attack provoking fear of the obese',
guess someone doesn't like going to Denny's…" She handed the document over to
Tate, who was lying languidly on the leather sofa with a similar stack of files
resting upon his stomach. Violet turned back to flip through more of the files
she had taken out of the desk drawer, having reached patients who Ben treated
back in Boston with crippling fears.
Tate chuckled childishly as he read through Ben's written notes on the fatass-
o-phobic patient. "Your dad actually took him to a McDonalds and the guy pissed
his pants! Man, that's fucking priceless." Poor Ben, he probably cried when the
full grown man emptied his bladder in front of the Playland at the sight of all
those whales stuffing their faces. How hilarious, and if you had the same
twisted taste in humor that Tate had, it was the funniest thing in the world
besides scaring coke whores to death.
He looked over at Violet, draped across the arm chair in that downright sinful
looking dress. So what if she was wearing her Converse with it? In his opinion,
it only made the look sexier, because wearing sneakers with a fancy dress was
something exclusively Violet Harmon. She was as cool as sin, and oh the sins he
wanted to commit with her. The way her collar bone jutted out against her ivory
skin in contrast to the cream color of the dress just made his head spin. He
could hardly wait to sink his teeth into her, and this time, he wouldn't be
gentle. However, Tate wanted to finish snooping through the Doctor's
professional life. It was giving him an intrigue boner.
"Find anything equally entertaining?" Violet asked as she continued to sort
through the stack of the manic depressives, the anxiety prone, the delusional,
and the downright psychotic.
Tate looked at some of the files he set aside, having found them only
interesting enough in comparison to the general failures his stack had
contained "Just a guy with a phobia of urban legends and a lady who memorized
the names of football teams to save her marriage…" Those two could probably hit
it off and have a really pathetic romance. He continued to thumb through the
different documents in hopes of finding his own or more prime examples of the
world's weirdoes.
However, it was Violet who stumbled across the stapled papers marked 'Tate
Langdon'.
It looked like all the other patient files: an assessment sheet with basic
information, a record of his appointments with her father, and a paper of hand
written notes. The little voice in Violet's head told her she should tell Tate
that she found her father's file on him, but the curiosity was just too strong.
She needed to take a good look at it first. After all, she was still in the
dark when it came to Tate over a lot of things, well, besides the fact that he
shot up Westfield High School seventeen years ago and committed suicide by cop.
Oh yeah, and Constance was his mother. All she really knew about Tate was the
crazy ghost shit and what he wanted her to know. Now what about what her father
knew? Was there another dimension to Tate as she had been contemplating over?
The assessment sheet was simple, like all the other patient documents. There
was Tate's name, his guardian's name, his age (seventeen forever), his address,
and the medications he was taking as well as the dosages. Nothing too out of
the ordinary. Tate was taking Lexipro, a common anti-depressant, although she
wasn't sure if it worked on the dead.
Violet turned the page as discreetly as possible to avoid alerting Tate that
she was reading something interesting, which he would correctly assume was his
file. It was the date sheet. Yup, nothing too interesting, just that her father
saw Tate on average about once a week, sometimes twice, which she already knew.
Moving on.
It was the sheet of her father's handwritten notes that sparked her interest.
Patient spoke about violent fantasies, particularly about committing murder.
'Prepare for the noble war'. 'No one can stop me including myself'. States that
in these fantasies, he kills the people he likes, for which he shows no
sympathy, as he feels he is taking them to a better place by killing them.
Pessimistic view of the world. Clearly mentally disturbed. Fixated on carnage.
Possible emotional trauma as a child, as patient identifies his mother as a
'cocksucker' and claims his father abandoned him. Rage. Psychotic.
All that alone was from the first session. Okay, Tate clearly wasn't just some
kid with a common case of teen angst. This didn't sound like the Tate she knew.
Sure, he had moments where he was quote un-quote off his goddamn rocker, but
for the most part Tate had been sweet and kind. Constance said that the
darkness of the house drove him to shoot all those kids back in 1994. He
committed suicide by cop. All that could be explained by the influence of
Murder House, but the Tate she knew was more like the boy draping his arm
around his sister Addie in the picture Constance had showed her. Smiling and
gentle to those he loved, the Tate he used to be before all the blood and
carnage of the house had taken a hold of him. Violent fantasies? That was new.
Tate occasionally talked about how much he hated the high school her forgot he
shot up and he did have some twisted ideas of how to scare people. But never
before had he mentioned any violent fantasies, let alone any thoughts of
killing people. There were moments when she looked at him and for second
glimpsed at the troubled soul behind the beautiful ghostly face. Tate had
always had a disturbing edge, but it was just now that Violet realized it was
more of a fucking sidewalk than an edge.
She remembered the way Tate stood in the threshold of the bathroom door,
watching casually as she made a fresh cut into her forearm with the razor. He
had told her she was doing it wrong with sick fascination. They can't stitch
that up. Only psychos told people which way to cut to end it all. And he had
smiled, he had smiled at her when he closed the bathroom door. There was
something in his eyes that had sent her heart pounding against her ribcage,
with intrigue or alarm, she wasn't sure. Violet saw the tip of the iceberg
then. She wasn't completely sure if she wanted to continue exploring what lay
under the surface.
She looked at the second set of notes from Tate's second session with her
father.
Lied to me about taking Lexipro. Showed the desire to get better. Possibly
scared of rejection as a result of father's abandonment. Claimed he stopped
taking Lexipro because he was afraid it would make him incompetent, states that
he has met someone.
That someone was her. That was the day she and Tate had really met for the
first time. It was weird to think it had only been over a month ago that they
had crossed paths, or dimensions, or whatever. Tate was wearing that mustard
yellow wool sweater that smelled like sandalwood. She remembered because it was
the first thing she saw when she had wandered into her living room that
afternoon.
"Hey you!"
The boy in the condiment colored pullover turned around from where he stood,
admiring the gruesome mural her mother had been uncovering. Violet thought they
were pretty cool, with demons eating naked people and stuff. Usually you had to
pay a visit to some cannibal's house in Virginia to get a close look at these
fine pieces of religious propaganda, not in a three story Victorian home in Los
Angeles.
Violet had been in the middle of looking for her mother. She needed to know if
the laundry was done. Her favorite Navajo print sweater was in the wash and she
wanted it back on her shoulders. But instead of finding her mother picking off
the wallpaper, she had found the psycho boy who spied on her cutting last week.
Forget the sweater, she had a bone to pick with this creep.
The boy, with his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants, looked her over
with a dazed look in his dark eyes. He smiled the same psycho smile he had
given her last week, and it only served to infuriate her more. Clearly he was
one of her father's new patients, but just because he was mentally unstable
didn't give him to right to walk around her house, opening closed doors as if
he owned the place. Now he was standing in her living room, looking at her
houses' hell mural?
"Why the fuck were you spying on me last week?"
He shrugged and took a step away from the mural. "I had to take a piss. When
you gotta go you gotta go, you know?"
Violet stood her ground. She wasn't about to let psycho boy walk all over her.
"I don't care how badly you needed to take a piss, this is my house and…"
The boy had taken Violet's arm in his hand before she had even realized he was
standing mere inches in front of her.
"I used to cut myself too," What he said stopped her from tugging her arm out
of his grasp. "I used a carving knife and the feeling when it sliced into my
wrist just made me feel relieved. I'd watch the blood bubble up and spill down
my arm," The boy looked into her eyes, understanding flooding his once smug
features and drastically changing his appearance. Violet had met plenty of
cutters before, but they were all overweight Hot Topic goth girls looking for
attention by pressing plastic knives into their fat arms during lunch. She had
never even heard of a guy cutting before, or even thought they existed.
"You feel like you're floating when the skin finally splits and you realize
you're still alive. Suddenly there's so much blood and someone's banging on the
door because they need to take a shit. Just like that you're back in reality."
He smiled, but this smile was different. It wasn't the smile he gave her as he
closed the bathroom door. This was a smile of compassion, something Violet was
shit out of these days. Was he actually interested in her? Boys were never
interested in her, unless she was in the way of the big boobed bitch they were
trying to hit on. As far as Violet knew, boys were just testicles that could
talk, lacking any emotions besides lust, rage, and shameless pride. Psycho boy
here was throwing sixteen years of observations of the opposite sex out the
goddamn window.
"You're the Doctor's daughter. Kind of ironic," He let go of her arm, which
dropped back to her side without much control. "What's your name?"
Violet stood mouth agape for a moment before summoning the use of her vocal
chords. "Violet."
The boy shoved his hands back into the pockets of his pants. "Cool, like the
Hole song!"
"Y-yeah, I guess." Holy Christ's nuts, a boy who understands the physics of
self harm  and  appreciates the grunge era? Was this kid for real? "What about
you, you got a name?"
"Tate Langdon."
Tate. That was a nice name, it fit him very well. Not many people named their
kids Tate after the 1970s. He had the looks to pull the name off, that was for
sure. Messy blonde hair that skimmed his eyes in waves, a handsomely shaped
face with eyes to match, and a lean figure surfers would envy. He was like the
reincarnation of Kurt Cobain, and she was standing there, wide eyed and heart
pounding like a regular Courtney Love.
Tate flinched, realizing the time and the appointment he had to keep with the
good Doctor. "Hey, I gotta go see your father and stuff, but do you maybe wanna
hang out after I'm done in there?"
It was what Violet had just been thinking. Damn, could this kid read her mind?
She snapped out of her daze to reply to his offer. "Sure, my room is the second
to the right. Just knock on it or whatever I guess."
Tate smiled again, looking very pleased with himself. He nodded at Violet and
left her standing idly in the middle of the living room to run off to his
therapist appointment.
There was something in Violet that day that drove her to Tate, like a moth to a
flame. He had a charm that could tame shrews and rabid animals. He had spun a
web around her, and no matter how hard she struggled against the binds she
could not free herself. He had her fully wrapped in his tangled weaving. Violet
recalled how he stomped down the stairs screaming after her father told him to
leave. It was clear he was a mentally unstable ghost when she replayed the
memory in her head, his personality swinging at the drop of a hat as he made
his grand exit. Maybe the Tate her father was describing had always been there;
she had just been to enamored to notice the flaws.
Violet read on.
Spoke of wanting to engage in graphic sexual relations with Violet. Clearly
mentally disturbed, turning to thoughts of sex and violence in times of
weakness. Will act on these feelings if left unchecked. Clear personality
disorder. Needs to get a rise out of people. Tendency to self harm.
Hallucinations and creation of a fantasy world. Abandonment issues. Thoughts of
violence and the desire to act on these thoughts. Pessimistic outlook. Can't
recall certain events in detail. Compulsive lying. Identity disturbance.
Paranoia and difficulty controlling anger. Diagnosis: Psychosis as a result of
Dissociative Identity Disorder or Borderline Personality Disorder. Patient
cannot be treated by me anymore.
Violet sat mouth agape as she stared at her father's scrawl. Oh shit. Oh dear.
But no, it couldn't be. He father was a shit therapist! He couldn't even pull
his head out of his ass long enough to realize she was on the grand voyage of
depression or that his wife was eating raw brains. Tate was certainly unstable,
so she wasn't too surprised he talked about wanting to fuck her in order to get
a rise out of her father. But what about all the other stuff? Sure, being dead
would probably cause a person to be somewhat mad as a hatter, but this Tate
sounded more like a sociopath than the boy who held her in her sleep and gave
her black roses. And what the fuck did 'will act upon those fantasies if left
unchecked' mean? Ok, there was the time when he sent that…monster baby thing in
the basement to tear Leah a new mouth in her cheek, but Tate was only trying to
scare her, not kill her. Tate didn't even know that thing had attacked her, so
he didn't necessarily mean any of the foul that had happened. Besides, he made
up for the mistake by saving her and her mother from those creeps who broke in,
two of whom were now dead and haunting the place. Oops, maybe Tate didn't do as
good of a job with that as she originally thought.
What really scared Violet was that she had no idea of the extent of Tate's
issues. This wasn't some Holden Caulfield bullshit description. Instead of the
heartbreak for her boyfriend's troubles that she had expected experience, she
felt her stomach drop. She tried digging herself out of the rude wake-up call
with reasoning that her father was a crock of a psychiatrist. Dad has his head
too far up his ass, right? But then Violet realized that when it came to dead
teenagers, anything could be true, especially in this house.
What the hell kind of boy did she lose her virginity to?
"What have you got there Vi?"
Violet jumped at the sound of Tate's voice, crumpling the sides of the
observation sheet as her hands closed into frightened fists. He was standing
right behind her, looking down at the piece of paper she had been so engaged in
with an unreadable expression set across his face. He certainly wasn't smiling
though.
"I-I…uh…" Violet tried to talk, but her tongue was just useless muscle and her
mind couldn't seem to comprehend the English language. All she could do was
stare dumbly up at Tate, right into those dark eyes that suddenly scared the
living shit out of her.
Tate knelt down and rested his chin on Violet's stiff shoulder. Without a word,
he plucked the observation sheet from her hands and held it close to his face
to skim through. Violet realized her heart was pounding in her ears, a loud ba-
thump, ba-thump, ba-thump that distracted her from breathing.
Her brain told her limbs to move and get the fuck out of the room because there
was something wrong with Tate being quiet and serious. But her arms and legs
were deaf to the mind's flight response, paralyzed with a storm of different
emotions towards the situation.
Then Tate laughed. It sounded so much like his usual childish chuckle,
lighthearted and smug. Yet the laugh had changed somehow; it now meant
impending danger and Violet was playing the part of the helpless prey.
"Pretty fucked up, aren't I?"
Violet sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. Where was her sarcasm? Her
cutting wit? Her steel backbone? Gone, they were gone and nowhere to be found.
Tate moved to sit down in front of the patent leather chair she was draped in.
Violet watched in frozen fear as he ran a hand down her thigh, bunching the
fabric of Nora's gown in a fist that she wasn't sure how to feel about.
"You're not scared of me now, are you?"
Violet wanted to believe he had said it with genuine concern at the feeling of
her stiff beneath his wandering hand. She wanted to believe that his dark eyes
were now shining with the fear that he had done something terribly wrong. That
was what it looked like in the literal sense. But her head was corrupted by the
realization that there was a whole side of Tate that was a threat. Although he
looked distressed at the prospect he had frightened her, that threat lingered
in the shadows, ready to take the good Tate's place and deceive her.
The curse on her tongue lifted. "This is some pretty heavy shit Tate." Violet's
attempt to put some bite into her words failed miserably. She ended up sounding
like a pathetic little girl trying to avoid the time out chair.
Tate's hand closed itself around her stiffened wrist. His face appeared to sink
at the realization that her body didn't respond favorably to his touch anymore,
a sense of hurt clouding his eyes. "I thought you'd understand Violet. Why are
you so scared of everything now?"
Tate leaned in closer, desperate to break through the troubling wall of
friction that had been constructed between them. She looked the same as she did
looking at that book on birds: cold, distant, strange. He had to keep her by
his side, something in him was screaming that he keep her to himself.
Violet's eyes flickered about the room, desperately searching for an
appropriate answer to a question that was so fragile to handle. "I'm not
scared," Liar. "I just don't like being lied to."
Tate stood up, his fists pressed stiff against his sides. "You think I lied to
you?" His voice broke with a sliver of anger, but it was audible enough to send
a shiver down Violet's spine. "Maybe I just wanted to keep some things to
myself? Is that such a problem?"
She flinched slightly and winced, which seemed to drag Tate back down to Earth.
Violet was a strong girl. True she had been going through a ton of shit as of
lately, her pregnant mother hauled off to the crazy house and her father being
about as useful to her psyche as a loaded gun, but things seemed to have been
going fine. They had made love and it didn't hurt. She trusted him enough to
unify with their bodies. She lied about the ghosts in order to stay by his
side. Didn't she still love him? It appeared as though there was nothing that
could hurt them, they were invincible to all the piss the world had to offer.
What the hell happened? Did he have to prove himself to her yet again that he
was the good guy?
"Tate I…"
"What do I have to do Violet to show you I'm on your side?"
Violet's mouth gaped open slightly, once again lost for words. She wanted to
thrash him until he had no more secrets to himself anymore. She wanted to
scream and beg he tell her just who the hell he was. She wanted him to realize
he was just a crazy dead kid who was stuck in the Murder House for eternity so
he could finally tell her what kind of person he was. Who was the real Tate
Langdon? Was Tate a lost soul who loved and cared, only committing that
horrific school shooting because the house had corrupted him with all of its
death and evil? Or was Tate a demon dead-bent on destruction, only using her as
a pawn in some sick game he was playing?
Before Violet could mumble an incoherent reply to his question, Tate had moved
to stand by her draped legs, a look of desperation playing out on his features.
She watched closely as he leaned forward over her knees to stroke her cold
cheek with the back of his hand. She made no signs of any physical reaction to
the feeling of knuckles against skin, but her head with wailing with the
screams of hundreds of furies and consciousnesses, some telling her to be
afraid, others telling her to give into the temptation of the flesh.
"I want to show you a fantasy I've always had…" Violet's blood ran cold, her
eyes going wide in alarm at the words that had escaped Tate's mouth. Thoughts
of guns and knives and other murder weapons danced in her head, blood
splattering the walls of her father's office and staining all the patient files
that he would know they had gone through. What was Tate doing?
"Please Violet, let me prove to you how much I love you." How, by disemboweling
her?
A hand slid into the skirt of Nora's dress, creeping up Violet's stockinged
thigh, gentle but so very tempting as it stopped short of her sex.
Tate was so close to her face that her skin was starting to dew with his hot
breath. He heart was racing at the close contact in such tension filled moment,
unsure of whether he was about to kiss her or kill her.
He leaned in further to press is lips to her ear. "I want to kiss your cunt
Violet. Please?"
The chorus of yelling in her head was silenced, the quiet invaded by Tate's
whispered confession and the feeling of fingers on her thigh plucking the loose
threading of her tights. Tate had rewound the web over Violet's heart, as
evident by the heat her body responded with to his offer of cunnilingus. Her
mind was unsure, but her heart and body were allied against common sense that
said Tate Langdon was dangerous and would kill at the drop of a hat, no matter
how gently he had treated her in the past.
There is simply no room for rational thought when the body lusts. Girls who
decided to get a good fuck in while a masked madman was wandering the street
stalking big breasted girls were greeted to a butcher's knife in their naked
backs. The good virgin is not distracted by the temptation of naughty things,
and thus has the mind set to be the last girl standing. Violet always thought
she would be the one who outsmarted the danger in her own horror movie. But
here was the situation standing right between her legs, and she had no choice
but to give in. What happened Vi? What has this boy done to you?
She couldn't think of any justification for why she had nodded in consent. She
was spellbound by Tate's lethal charm and the disgusting capacity for human
love.
Tate's hands moved to grab Violet around the ankles, pulling her towards him so
that her hips slid onto the armrest for easier access. He looked at her quietly
as he unlaced her Converse, his heart breaking with agony at the disturbing
lack of trust in her face. Did he horrify her that much? He knew Violet would
manage to stumble upon his patient file at some point and learn just what sort
of things her discussed with her father, but her reaction to them just know was
not what he had expected. She didn't flinch when those nuts broke into her
house and tried to drown her in the bathtub. She didn't shed a tear when the
cops hauled her mother off to the asylum. Why was it now that she looked
completely lost?
Tate tossed the sneakers to the other side of the room and moved to push the
skirt of the gown up. Violet had gone with the purple tights today, their color
her namesake and their opaqueness like her demeanor. He ran a gentle hand along
her hip once the dress was no long in the way. All she did was look at him with
expressionless eyes, silently questioning her faith in him as his fingers
tugged at the waistband of her tights.
Violet obediently lifted her hips up as Tate pulled the tights down her hips,
past her thighs, and off of her pale legs. The key adjective in the situation
was obediently, there was no passion or lust in reaction to the removal of
clothing as there was when they had sex in her bed. It felt like something they
had to do, a required task to reassure their love for each other because things
had changed within the last five minutes.
Violet responded when Tate pressed his lips against hers, but her mouth wasn't
hungry like his, it was apprehensive and unsure as it opened to let his tongue
in. She was responding automatically without any of the emotion that made
sexual encounters passionate. Tate wasn't satisfied with any of that, and the
way his hands latched onto the elastic band of her frilly underpants showed he
wasn't going to have any of her meaningless responses.
The kiss broke as Tate moved back to pull the final barrier between him and his
task down. Her underpants stayed looped around one ankle; there was no need to
throw them across the room only to lose and have Ben find months later with a
look of horror on his face. Violet made no move to cover what was now exposed;
she just silently accepted it without complaint or comment. Tate knelt himself
down between her hanging legs, running a hand up the inside of her thigh. It
was like touching dead skin. Nothing was responding to him as it should be.
"Violet…don't you like it when I touch you?" Tate took a hold of Violet's hand,
bringing it to his cheek so that she could feel the honesty in him and stop
acting like such a stranger. She looked down at his desperate attempt to stay
close to her, situated right between her legs, all set to press open mouthed
kissed to her sex. She felt the heartbreak in her chest but didn't want to
nurse it back to health. This was what she wanted, wasn't it? To fool around in
her asshole father's office with a ghost she didn't want to be separated from?
She lied about her mother's sanity for this. And now it was time to sleep in
the bed she made for herself, a bed with sheets of lies, pillows of regret, and
a comforter of Tate's touch. Violet had to sleep in it, that mattress of fuck
ups,
"I'm just worried about my mom." Liar. Lying through your teeth to be touched
and loved was so filthy. Here she was on her back, her legs spread open like a
French whore, about to be tongue fucked by the ghost of a boy who she just
learned was certified clinically psychotic even in the afterlife. Did she even
know what she was doing anymore?
Tate wanted to believe her. When had Violet become such a horrendous liar? She
used to spin spotless lies out, turning bullshit into believable golden thread.
But he was so desperate to bring Violet back to him that he was willing to give
her oral sex that was completely meaningless to her. He nodded in acceptance to
the poorly fabricated claim and pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee.
Violet kept her hand pressed to his cheek, if only to reassure her bullshit fib
and get him to keep pushing her thighs apart. Nothing about the way her looked
at her mound felt sexy. Forced was the furthest thing from sexy.
But the feeling of tongue to core was so overwhelming that Violet's
apprehensive mind was dragged under the current of sexual pleasure, albeit it
felt wrong and sinful. She shook as Tate dragged his tongue from hole to clit,
the response he had desperately needed to feel from her since the beginning.
She tasted sweet yet tart in his mouth, her wetness slicking up his chin and
lips, her aroma intoxicating his senses and sending him over the edge.
Her breath hitched as his tongue found her clit and caressed it, making Violet
throw her head back and release a mute scream. Tate was groaning and making the
most obscene slurping noises as he spelled his name out across the bundle of
nerves, T-A-T-E. The T's felt really good, she wished he had more T's in his
name. But there were vowels, and they were torturous flicks of the tongue that
didn't satisfy like the T's did.
Tate's hands planted themselves to the insides of Violet's thighs, keeping them
pried open as her legs had begun twitching from the sensations his mouth was
giving her pussy. He was licking her like a starved animal cleaning meat off
the bones, and although the taste of her juices wasn't one he would exactly
like to bottle and drink with a nice steak, the situation made it seem
delectable on his tongue. And the way her smell and heat splashed across his
face brought out something terrible in him that wanted to take control. His
tongue became more adventurous, slipping down to trace the hole his dick had
opened up days ago, a hole meant for him and no one else. His teeth pushed up
against her clit, roughly kneading the nub with pressure and sending Violet's
hands into his hair. Her whimpered moans reached his ears after about a minute
of this torturous teasing, and he finally gave in to the animalistic desire.
Tate's tongue finally entered her, roughly shoving past sensitive, wet walls
and choosing to fuck. Violet's eyes fixated themselves on the office ceiling,
she couldn't stand to look at Tate's head anymore, she just felt shameful. Her
body had betrayed her, bucking up into his warm mouth for more of that
delicious contact, the feeling of his tongue tickling her swollen clit so
insanely addictive. The devil can be beautiful. Leah may be some pretentious
coke slut, but she was right. The words repeated themselves in her ears amongst
the raunchy noises Tate was making between her legs and Violet realized just
how right she was. What better way to get humanity to do its bidding than
through Godly looks?
Then, Violet felt the edges of teeth pressing into her sex.
She looked down, despite all the screaming in her head telling her to close her
eyes and imagine herself elsewhere. Her hand was no longer threaded through
soft tufts of dirty blonde hair, but plastered against shiny black latex. The
eyes staring up at her were not those dark brown ones that were always gentle,
but cold and black like the gimp mask encasing the wearer's head. The tongue in
her cunt was now frenzied and forceful, nothing like how it felt before.
Violet could only watch in horror as the man in rubber continued to feast upon
her, her mind too arrested by the insane amount of pleasure the stranger's
tongue was giving. There was no way she could summon a scream, no way to
command her mouth to form the shapes to say 'stop', no way she could pull
herself away from the blissful heat that had numbed her limbs so that she could
get up and run. She was the prey now, the poor helpless prey about to be eaten
alive for the predator's content.
The tongue removed itself and went straight to long, languid licks, dragging
slowly and torturously. Then the teeth came back to nibble on her clit, which
the tongue poked and prodded causing a dull, pleasurable pain to burst along
her spine. There was no sign of Tate anywhere in the ministrations, he was gone
and replaced by whoever it was behind the latex mask. Those teeth and tongue
weren't gentle and loving, but demanding and starving, waiting to bite down and
draw blood from the ripped flesh. Flashes of pain and images of her mutilated
privates filled her head. The rubberman had moved on to violating her mind,
sending visions of carnage and destruction that tortured her sanity.
Tears began to build up in Violet's eyes. They were tears of frustration,
anguish, fright, and sickening pleasure. It hurt so good, the intensity was
past the level of comfort, like the rubbing of salt into a freshly opened
wound. There was nothing left to salvage, all the pieces were falling from her
bones and the flesh was ready to be consumed by the demon in the gimp suit,
whose tongue felt inhumanly long and snakelike as it dipped back into her pussy
hole. The house finally had her in its hold; the rubberman taking the form of
the angst ridden lost soul of Tate Langdon who served as the messenger for all
the evil that the Victiorian home had manifested in its walls. It was the
tongue of evil that sent Violet over the edge and into a blinding climax. Nora
Montgomery's dress became soiled with the horrendous orgasm, joining the
memories of dead babies, drug addiction, murder, and sin in the fabric.
When Violet's vision finally returned, the horrible man in the gimp suit was
gone without a trace but for the nightmarish orgasm she had fallen from. Tate
was back with his sad looking eyes and boyish good looks. His fingers were
already there to brush the tears from her eyes, his lips moving to murmur "I
love you"s that only made Violet cry harder.
Nothing was fixed. Another crime had been committed in this house of the Devil.
There were no excuses for the vision of latex, the hateful orgasm, or the
abundance of lies. Violet didn't know who Tate Langdon was. She never did know,
actually. And as he wrapped his arms around her neck and planted an assault of
loving kisses across her face, the sinking feeling of helplessness smothered
her. Tate, on the other hand, felt the horrid pang of failure in his heart.
Nothing good could ever stay. Life was unpredictable. He felt as if he were
rotting away. Who was he? There were so many blanks in his mind, so many holes
that time should've filled, so many questions he couldn't answer. He was
ignorant to the evil that had used him as its playing piece, ignorant to the
sins he had committed, ignorant to the stranger that shared his body alongside
him. How can you fix something when you yourself are already beyond repair?
The house was silent but for Violet's sobs and Tate's hopeless whispers in the
girl's ear. His patient file sat lonely on the ground, still open to all of
those terrible notes that had stomped all over Violet's heart. The ghosts
looked on, laughing and enjoying the spectacle of misery. Nobody in this house
deserved to be happy when everyone was dead and miserable. This house of dead
babies and blood on the walls and adultery and failure.
How fucking tragic.
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