A/N: Fully sated by turkey and the fifth chapter of Hot For Teacher, I have another short story – it will be longer than a one-shot, but probably not more than three chapters. It will be canon (gasp, I know, I have loved my AUs recently) – Tate fucked up (literally) and Violet has not forgiven him despite still loving him. Angst time!

Own Me

Fucking Travis was not nearly as satisfying as she thought it would be.

She cornered him in the gazebo, all awkward teenager hormones and skinny hip bones, and somehow enticed him up the stairs and into her room, not giving a shit about the obvious trail of clothes down the hallway and the very real consequence of that sending him into a whirlwind of pitiful self-destruction.

Now she was caught up in the delicious way his tongue was swirling around her clit, not caring that he was probably there, watching them with tears coming down his cheeks, because the only thing worse than watching them was not watching them and for what he lacked in empathy, he made up for in vivid imagination.

The sad thing, she thought as Travis switched to fingering her, was that he wasn't immune to his own manipulation.

And even sadder, she thought as Travis slid inside her, hot and hard and smooth, was that he was a slave to his emotions, especially when it came to her, and while his anger could embolden him to kill, his remorse could relegate him to a sniveling, whining, pathetic shell of the person she had fallen in love with.

What a waste.

She could feel Travis coming inside her, sticky streams dripping out of her and onto her newly laundered sheets as she pushed him off her as soon as he was done.

"But wait, you didn't –"

"It's fine. Just go."

Travis, as dumb as he was, could tell he was no longer wanted and discreetly left the room after hastily putting on his pants.

She just laid there, naked as the day she was born and the day she lost her virginity to someone she now wasn't sure deserved it, Travis's come still leaking out and she hoped he was seeing her. She hoped that he knew that he was the one who drove her to this, even though she couldn't really define what "this" was, only that she didn't like it.

"He didn't make you come."

She didn't sit up to look at him because she already knew what he would look like, had it practically painted on the undersides of her eyelids – ripped jeans even more frayed due to his incessant picking, worn Converse that sometimes squeak when he walks, musty sweater over a T-shirt proclaiming his love for Nirvana, earnest, deep, hypnotizing eyes red with unshed tears, and soft blond hair falling into them.

"There he is, the guest of honor. Tell me, did you enjoy the show? You probably had the best seat in the house."

"He didn't make you come."

"How would you have known if he didn't blab it out loud?"

"Your breath didn't hitch the way it did with me. And your fingers would always dig into my back when you were close, but you didn't even touch him."

Silence.

"Get out."

She made sure he was gone before she started crying.

She was busy smoking a cigarette, a gift from Constance when she decided for a day to have a shred of a heart. She could hear the porch creaking as someone walked down to sit next to her, but she didn't have the energy to turn to see who it was and just kept blowing clouds of smoke into the frigid morning air.

"Violet, you know that's not good for you."

"It won't kill me."

Vivien placed her hand on Violet's knee.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"How did you know you loved Dad?"

Vivien sighed a deep sigh, one that was weighed down with tiredness and sorrow and as much as Violet sometimes hated her mother – for her weakness, for her choice to stay with her shithead of a dad who cheated and lied and still did, and sometimes, though she would never admit it, for screwing over her chance of happiness with Tate because it takes two to tango and as much as it was Tate's fault, some shameful, selfish part of her blamed her mother – she still didn't like seeing her in pain.

"Love is a crazy thing, Violet. It defies description. People say you just know. I just knew, as stupid as that sounds. He was the person I wanted to spend my morning coffee with. He was the person I wanted to go to sleep next to every night. I married him because he wanted the same thing. Even though we have had our ups and downs, he is still the first one I want to tell my fears and hopes and dreams to. That's why I stay."

"Even though he hurts you?"

"Yes. Because in the end, nobody is perfect. Everyone has flaws, some more so than others. We just happened to pick ones that are riddled with them."

"Miss Violet, can you hand that rag over there?"

"Sure, Moira, hold on."

She was helping Moira clean because the twins had somehow obtained a stink bomb and thought it would be a great idea to detonate it in the kitchen. Unluckily for them, Moira is not above her own forms of torture and depravity – they were currently scraping off the rotten pieces of raccoon flesh that got splattered on the basement walls during Thaddeus's last meal.

"I'll help."

She turned to face him, all sincere and hopeful, and she wanted to scream, but instead kept resolutely silent as Moira handed him a bucket of soapy water.

"You can clean the floor with Violet."

She wanted to simultaneously slit Moira's throat and disappear into the basement, but her pride would never let her and instead she settled to pressing her mouth into a thin line.

He got down on his hands and knees right next to her and started scrubbing and his shoulders kept banging into hers and Violet couldn't handle it.

She scrubbed until her hands were raw.

"Violet…"

She didn't answer and he seemed to give up, leaving them cleaning the tiles until the sun went down and they were spotless white, gleaming and pure and such a contrast to every member of the house.

She got up to throw away her rag, but his arm suddenly yanked her back to the floor and she yelped in surprise and indignation.

"What the fuck –"

"You can't do this, Violet."

"Again, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"You can't keep pushing me away."

"And you think you can tell me what to do?! You don't own me. I'm not yours."

But he does and she is and she knows it and hates it and no matter how many times she fucks herself or Travis, she hates that it is not him, that it should be him, but she is too stubborn and she will rather break her heart than wound her pride.

"Yes you are."

She smacked him across the face, the resounding echo fading through the kitchen.

"You're mine because I know you were thinking about me when you were fucking Travis."

Her mouth curled into a malevolent sneer. So that's how he wants to play it. He thinks he has the upper hand, but Violet always knew just what to say to cut someone down to size and he was no exception.

"You want me to deny it just so you can list all the evidence you think you've gathered from stalking me day and night. But you know what, Tate? Maybe I was thinking about you. Actually, no, I was. But I was thinking about how pathetic it was that you were watching."

She leaned in close and smirked in sick pleasure when he let out a small moan at their proximity.

"I was yours and I wanted to always be yours. But you lost me. You will never have me again and you have no one to blame but yourself."

She got up and tried not to hear his soft sobs as she walked away, eventually climbing into her bed and wishing she didn't want him there.

A/N: She still loves him even though she is fighting it! Reviews make me happy!