Author: ScarlettWoman710

Title: Serve the Servants

Summary: The residents of murder house do not fear anything. But energy is not destroyed. It goes somewhere else. So while nothing scares Violet Harmon anymore, she's filled with more rage and more hurt and more pain then she ever thought was possible.

Rating: MA

Warning(s)/Kinks: Language, sexual situations

Spoilers: Everything in all episodes if you haven't been up to date with your viewing.

A/N: This story is a companion piece to my other story, "The House Always Wins." While they can be enjoyd seperately, this one might make a bit more sense if you have the proper context, so I suggest reading that one first. This is set in section three of "The House Always Wins," when Violet has been dead for fifteen years, and immediately prior to John, the child bride and the old man moving in. The title comes form a Nirvana song - of course - that I think kind of fits. There's Violet/Hugo in here, but it is VERY MUCH a Violet story.

And to everyone else who has written such brilliant things in this fandom - thank you. You inspire me!

Violet Harmon is angry.

Albert Einstein said that energy is neither created or destroyed. She remembers that from a science class that feels like a lifetime ago (it was). The living have so many emotions but the most primitive and strong is fear. Specifically, fear of dying. If you look at the fears of anyone the root is always this: I don't want to die. Fear of water or heights or animals all boils down to fear of drowning, fear of falling, fear of mauling, and fear of death.

The residents of murder house do not have those fears.

But energy is not destroyed. It goes somewhere else. So while nothing scares Violet Harmon anymore, she's filled with more rage and more hurt and more pain then she ever thought was possible.

And lust. She spends most of her time so hot she feels like she could burn alive and as long as the flames would lick her sex the way Tate did once fifteen (but it feels like a hundred) years ago, she wouldn't mind it so much.

The house has been empty for the last two years after an old women, driven insane by the house, hung herself from a chandelier. Her children have left it fully furnished and languishing on the market because there are no buyers - although Violet knows there will be soon, because she can sense the devil that lives in the walls getting restless. There are no living souls to hide from. The rest of the Murder House ghosts wander the halls looking for company or distraction or something to break the endless monotony. Violet spends her time face down on the rug in her old room, her small hands working furiously over her cunt in an attempt to calm the fire that's been burning inside of her since she swallowed a bottle of pills.

It wasn't so bad before. There was Tate there to experiment with. They fumbled through their first sexual encounters, all awkward angles and rhythm missteps, but as inexperienced as they were it always ended with the feeling of relief that you can only get from being that close to someone you love. It was never long before they were ready again, and again, and again and soon Violet found a way to push and pull against him in a way that felt good, not just good but good.

Tate was all talk in his sessions with Dr. Harmon, he had no idea what to do with a girl, only knew what he'd liketo do if he got the chance. He had learned enough though to know what Violet might like, and soon he went to work testing his new knowledge. He learned to read Violet's body like the books he used to devour. He'd watch for her thighs to start to twitch and shake and he'd know he was on the right track. He learned exactly how Violet liked his fingers to drag, slowly and slicked in her wetness, over her little pink bundle of nerves and how she liked it even better when she finally let him bury his face between her knees and try and repeat the same motions with his tongue.

It was great, until Violet learned Tate's biggest secret.

And while she and Tate have progressed from silence to something that could border on friendship, she's a long way away from allowing him to come anywhere near her heart or her body.

So Violet stays, alone on the floor of the room that she and Tate used to spend hours together in, and desperately tries to cum. She's all heat and slickness and when the heel of her hand pushes against her clit and her fingers finally reach the spot she's been searching for (Tate got so good at finding it, she thinks before pushing the idea out of her head) she topples over the edge, thrusting and shaking and light-headed. She stays there, twitching, until her breathing finally evens out.

She feels good, for a moment. Feels like the fire has been put out.

But it's only for a moment, and then she's burning again.

She sighs in frustration and goes in search of something to distract her. To destroy. She's angry that she's a sixteen year old sex fiend and she's been forced to share the only sex partner she's ever had with her mother.

She goes looking for him where she knows he'll be. She climbs up the ladder to the attic and he's there, sitting behind the chess board that he's set up for a game.

"Feeling better?" he asks, arching an eyebrow.

"Fuck off," Violet grumbles, collapsing in a heap on her side of the board. She pushes a pawn forward and angrily ties her hair back in a knot.

"I guess not," he says with a barely concealed smirk.

"I thought I told you to fuck off?"

"You know, there's a solution to your problem," he says, sliding his knight into place. "We got pretty good at that, if I remember right."

"Tate." She says it like a warning.

"We were happy once," he says, looking up through his fringe of bangs.

"That was before I found out you raped my mother."

Tate froze. In the fifteen years since she's found out the truth, neither of them has voiced the reason they stopped living and loving and fucking like rabbits all over the house. Tate's tried to apologize, but Violet always cuts him off. She doesn't want to hear it.

"Violet - " he pleads.

"Go away," she whispers at him. He vanishes. She picks up the chessboard and throws it at the wall. It shatters in half and the noise startles Beau. She walks over to him, tears streaming down her face, and puts her arm around him to try and give him some comfort.

She wishes there was someone to comfort her.

She's back in her room again, bucking and thrusting and trying to remember the way it was when the last time they were together.

He had sat in her father's straight back office chair, facing the back window behind the desk. The sun reflected gold and light through his hair. His head was thrown back in pleasure but he had looked through narrowed eyes at her, a little smile playing at his lips because he knew that the tables have turned. So many of their earlier attempts that had felt so good for him and had felt, at the very most, simply satisfactory for her. He knew that it could be good if they could just find the right position or the right setting or the right trick that he could do with his fingers or tongue. Watching her, he thought that she was finally enjoying herself as much as he was. He had a sneaking suspicion that under the right circumstances Violet could be a screamer and he was going to coax one out of her if it killed him (again).

So once her parents had left for the day and taken Sunny with them, he had dragged Violet into her dad's office under the guise of reading his patient files and started nibbling on her earlobes. When the blush started creeping from her neck to her cheeks he moved to her neck, pulling her flesh through his teeth and soothing it with his tongue. Before long his jeans were around his ankles and Violet was on top of him wearing only her socks. They never even opened the file cabinet.

She straddled him in the chair, one leg propped up on the desk for leverage. She had never felt this good - nobody has ever felt this good, she had decided. Her small breasts were bouncing with every stroke, sweat running in little drips down the valley in between. When Tate had leaned forward and pulled her pink breast into his mouth she had almost cum right there. His tongue swirled in a circle over her nipple and her legs had started to shake. Her hips started to jerk and it got harder to keep her rhythm but Tate had reached out and steadied her hips with his hands, making her move at an even pace.

"Tate, what the fuck," she whined.

"Not yet," Tate breathed, his lips brushing against her nipple.

She started moving more insistently over his cock, arching her back. It was getting harder for Tate to keep control, she could tell by the way his fingers were squeezing her hips.

It felt good.

She put her hands on top of his, squeezing his fingers. "Tighter," she had whispered.

Tate looked surprised but pleased. He clutched her hips harder. "Tighter," she begged again. "Make it hurt."

His eyes turned hazy and pitch black. He gripped her hips, digging his nails into her skin. If she was living, she'd have been black and blue the next day. Her eyes went wide and her breathing hitched and she pumped up and down on top of him at a frenzied pace. Tate's breathing had been heavy and it only got heavier when he watched her reach her little hand between them and start stroking her clit. He crushed her hips beneath his fingers and watched as her eyes rolled back. Her sex clenched around him and he came undone inside of her, the words "make it hurt" echoing in his head. The collapsed against each other, sweaty and sated and completely in love.

She hadn't screamed then, but she did scream now into her fist as she finally found herself able to cum. Once she stops twitching she sits up and pushes her sweaty hair out of her face.

I'm in hell, she thinks, pulling her panties back on. In hell and being burned alive.

Violet sits in the crawlspace where Tate buried her corpse fifteen years ago. Her legs dangle over the edge and piles of the old woman's left behind china sit on either side. Every minute or so, she picks up a plate and heaves it across from her, relishing in the crash it makes as it shatters against the wall.

"Jesus Christ, will you cut that shit out?" Hayden grumbles, crawling along the dirty floor. "What the fuck are you doing down here anyway, reliving happy memories?"

"Go away," Violet says morosely, throwing another plate.

"You didn't mean it," Hayden says triumphantly. "My ass would have disappeared if you did."

"Whatever. Stay. Go. Doesn't matter to me."

Hayden rolls her eyes. "How long have you been stuck in this hell hole now?" she asks. "You're still all hung up on what boyfriend did fifteen years ago? Christ. Move on, already."

Crash."None of your business."

"Actually, it is, as as long as I have to put up with him mooning over you." She picks up one of the plates and pitches it at the wall. "That actually does feel pretty satisfying," Hayden says, surprised. Violet continued to stare straight ahead but a small smile plays at her lips.

"How much longer are you going to make him pay for it?" she asks, tossing a teacup up in the air and catching it a few times before throwing it at the wall. Violet shrugs.

"You're just punishing yourself. You can't tell me that your fingers feel better than he does."

Violet looks up, startled. "Please," Hayden snorts. "There's no secrets in this house. Everybody knows what you're doing when you go in your room and shut the door."

Violet rolls her eyes and tosses another plate. "It's not exactly easy to get over it," she says. "He raped and impregnated my mother. He is the father of my half-sister. We're not Romeo and Juliet, we're Oedipus or some other Greek fucking tragedy."

Crash. "No, Oedipus killed his father and married his mother. I'm pretty sure the last thing that Tate wants to do is fuck Constance."

Violet blows her bangs out of her eyes. "It doesn't matter. Whatever he felt for me was all bullshit."

"I don't think it was," Hayden says. "He's psychotic, don't get me wrong. Doesn't mean that the crazy little shit doesn't love you."

"IT DOESN'T MATTER, okay?" Violet shouts, resisting the urge to claw the young woman's eyes out. "I can't forgive him for this. I can't. And I don't expect you to get it."

"Yeah, I'm sure that I have no idea how it feels to be betrayed by a man that you thought loved you," Hayden says sarcastically. "Please. Stop acting like an angst ridden little girl and DO something about it."

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" Violet asks, voice shaking. "I can't exactly leave. I'm stuck here with him."

"Make him hurt," Hayden says. "Why should you be the only one that's hurting? Make him hurt like you do. Do the same thing to him that he did to you."

"I don't want to fuck Constance. Besides, she doesn't even live here."

"No, but Hugo does."

Violet's arm freezes mid-toss. "What?"

"Fuck Hugo. Make Tate see how it feels. If he wasn't already dead, it would kill him."

"I can't do that," Violet scoffs. "Besides, him raping my mother and me banging his dad are hardly the same thing."

"No, they're not," Hayden agrees. "But it will fuck him up, knowing you've been with his dad. He gets off on knowing that you're his. Ruin that, he'll feel as bad as you do."

"I'm not his," Violet hisses angrily.

"Then prove it," Hayden says, picking up a salad plate and heaving it at the wall. "Violet, sex is a weapon. It always has been. Some of the greatest women in history knew it - Cleopatra, Helen of Troy - and they used it. It's the best weapon we have."

"That and a sharp knife," Violet says, thinking of Travis.

"I used sex first," Hayden says. "How do you think I got close enough to use the kinfe?"

They sit in silence for a moment. Violet didn't want to have sex with Hugo. She did, however want Tate to feel all the pain she was in. There's no way to come out even in the murder house. It's not a math equation, there's no equals sign. But Violet is just fucked up and angry enough that she's willing to do anything to lessen the pain. She's never even been with another guy. In another world she'd feel disgusted to be with someone so much older, but Violet feels like a sixteen year old girl and a thirty year old woman all at once. She also knows that the only time the need that burned like a fire inside of her had been extinguished was when she was clenching around Tate's dick. If you wander in the desert long enough, you'd be amazed what you'd do for a drink.

"A revenge fuck is just what you need," Hayden shrugs. "Just think about it."

Violet wordlessly handed her another plate. She already was.

Violet had made a mistake of making a wish in the murder house, and she already knew how making wishes turned out. How it had turned out for the other ghosts and for her. The thing about being stuck in this endless loop of pain and sorrow and never ending hormonal surges is that after awhile, you stop caring about consequences. Violet had been driven by her needs since she went toes up fifteen years ago, and right now she needed to make Tate feel the black hole that was ripping her soul apart. She couldn't forgive him for all that he had done to her mother, to her, but she could maybe just stop hating him so damn much if she could see that he was dying inside like she was.

Even though she knows that he missed her he was walking around like he knew she'd come back. He was too fucking calm, his expression and little smile around her that seemed to scream "We'll work out. We'll be together again."

She wants to wipe that smile off his fucking face.

So that's why two days after her conversation with Hayden she's wearing Moira's maid's uniform. Hugo has a thing for maids, and Violet doesn't want to work any harder at this than she has to. She doesn't even want to fuck Hugo, he looks too much like Tate and she knows it's going to freak her out when they finally get to it but she needs to feel something besides rage and being horny. And if she can hurt Tate like he hurt her than maybe she'll finally be able to move the hell on with her afterlife and stop wanting to break shit.

He's in her parents old room, dressing for work. Hugo, like Nora, is caught somewhere in between knowing something is not right and completely fucking oblivious. Violet walks in and starts dusting. She doesn't have one tenth of the tits needd to fill out the uniform but she's got pretty decent legs and she's hoping the whole Lolita vibe will be enough to get Hugo's dick hard.

"Who are you?" Hugo asks, confused.

"I'm the new maid," Violet says. She bends over under the guise of dusting the dresser but really to give him a good view of her ass. She looks over her shoulder and breathes a sigh of relief because Hugo's already fucking her with his eyes.

"Really," Hugo says. She can hear the lust in his voice. She was counting on the whole zombie sex drive thing to help her out and it's clearly working in her favor.

"Yeah. Is there anything... dirty in here that needs cleaning up?" She has to try not to laugh, she knows she sounds like a bad porno but fuck it, Hugo hasn't seen a porno since the 80's and he probably doesn't know how cheesy it sounds. He walks up to stand behind her and she can feel his dick through his pants. She straightens up and he's breathing in her ear.

"I'm sure I can find something for you to do," he breathes, tongue flicking her earlobe. She has to fight the urge to gag. He's got a raging hard on and she's never been more turned off in her life.

"I can do anything you need. I'm very, very good."

"I think you seem more like the type to be very, very bad."

Violet looks down so she can roll her eyes. Jesus, this was the ladies man? Christ.

"There's a wrinkle in the bedspread, over there," Hugo says. She walks over to the bed.

"Right here?" Violet asks, bending over and laying her body across the top.

"Yeah," Hugo says. He slides between her legs, forcing them apart. He runs his hand over her ass and pushes the skirt up. He reaches through her panties and traces her sex with his fingers.

"Your pussy's dry," he says, almost accusingly. "I thought we were going to do this?"

Violet's too busy being torn between laughing and throwing up to answer. She's so distracted that she didn't feel him reach down and grab her ankle, folding her leg and putting it on the bed.

"What the fuck-?" She asks, dazed, but he's got her other ankle in his hand and before she can finish he's got her on all fours on the bed. She turns to look over her shoulder at him and watches him rip her panties down and stick his face in between her legs.

And then she thinks she might die, all over again, because she forgot how good this feels. "Fuck," she hisses. Hugo runs his tongue over her sex, dipping it inside. If she wasn't wet before it isn't a problem now, after feeling him fuck her with his tongue. "Better?" He murmurs, licking her clit with a bit more force. She swears she can feel his taste buds. She answers with her body instead of her words, pushing her cunt harder against his mouth and rocking her hips forward and back to grind his tongue against her clit.

She hears the jangle of a belt and the rustle of material and then he's inside, pushing into her, and Violet's eyes roll back in her head in response and she moans. From this angle, he's hitting the exact right spot that she can never seem to reach herself and her back is arching up, like a cat. Hugo grabs the front of her thighs from behind and pulls them further apart, pushing her into a near split. He grips her hips and pushes them down on the bed and pumps in and out and in and out and Violet wonders why she wasted so much time not feeling this. Her fingers could never feel this good, short and bitten nails and always cold no matter how hard she tries to warm them up first. Before long she's pushing back into him, matching his rhythm, arching her back. She reaches up a hand to run under her uniform and over her nipple, giving it a gentle tug. The ache she's had is finally starting to dull as she gets closer and closer to the edge. Her breath comes out in little gasps because she's having trouble remembering how to breathe. Hugo reaches underneath her to stroke her clit with quick, tiny strokes and throws his hips into hers and she's clenching around him, jerking and shaking and finally feeling relief.

But it goes away as quickly as it comes.

True, the feeling of burning alive has finally been sated but she feels emptiness instead. It felt good at the time, it really did, but not like it had been with Tate.

Tate.

Only Tate.

And when she looks back and down and sees Hugo's dress pants around his ankles over his loafers, it's her undoing. Because it should be a pair of ripped jeans and well worn converse sneakers instead.

She starts to cry.

Not loudly, just tears dripping down her face and little whimpers that Hugo can't hear because he's still too busy fucking her to notice.

Because now, she's finally confronting the one fear that she does have, which is of herself. Because she knows that she wants to be with Tate again and what the fuck does that say about her? And while she's still all rage and anger that he could ever hurt her mother she's finally seeing the dark part of herself, the part that wondered if her mother was better than she was. If he liked fucking her more. Vivien was all woman, soft and pillowy and full D-cups. Violet's all angles and skinny hipbones and a barely-there B. Vivien thought it was Ben and probably gave her all. Violet had only been with one boy didn't know if she was even doing it right.

She's disgusted with herself. She's going to be sick.

"Ughhhhhhh," Hugo grunts. She feels his dick twitch and spill and then he pulls out. "You better get out of here, Constance might come home any second," he says as pulls his pants up, looking wildly around the room. "Did you hear her? I better go check..." he leaves her on the bed, crying, sticky, sweaty and empty, leaving the door open behind him so she can see Tate on the other side.

She wipes her nose and pulls up her panties. He looks like he can't decide if he wants to cry or snap her neck.

"There," she spits hatefully at him. "Now we're even."

Everybody knows what everyone else in the house does. There are no secrets from the dead. Now that she's let the house in enough to start taking it's suggestions (and make no mistake, while Hayden was the messenger, the devil that is the house is the one who put the idea in her head) she can see and feel and know what goes on when she's not around. She knows that Tate snapped his fathers neck, a futile gesture since Hugo just stood up moments later and cracked it back into place. She know that Tate's been running razor blades and broken china from the crawlspace up and down his arms and making cuts that only last until he pulls the sharp edge away. She knows he's been ripping out his hair in tufts that keep growing back, and that he took Troy's baseball bat to the dining room table that the old woman had left behind. She didn't need omniscience to tell her that, she could hear Moira screaming at Tate for an hour from her place in the bathtub.

That's where she sits, numb and alone. She doesn't feel the fire burning inside of her but instead feels shame. Hurt. Rage. Pain.

This is what hell feels like. There's no fire and brimstone, just the nightmare of your own mistakes and the fact that you're doomed to repeat them. She knew Tate was bad when she met him. Now she knows just exactly how bad he is, and she craves him still.

But she's not going to give in. Not yet.

She sits instead, turning the water off an on. It burns for a second but she's glad to feel the pain. Physical pain is an easy distraction from emotional pain. That's why she was a cutter. Cutting doesn't have the same feel that it did when she was alive but the combination of burning water and being in the place that she took her last breath packs almost the same punch.

She doesn't hear him come in, doesn't even realize he's there until he's sitting beside the tub.

"I only ever loved you."

"What?" her voice comes out cracked from being unused and choked on the water dripping over her head.

"My whole life... and ever since it ended. I only ever loved you. No one else."

On, off. On, off. She feels the burn.

"I just wanted you to know."

They sit in silence, for how long, Violet doesn't know. She just knows at one point, she turns the water off and doesn't bother to turn it back on.

Tate gets up and gets a towel from the rack. He reaches into the tub and pulls her into a standing position. She lets him. She's tired, so tired, and doesn't have the energy to hate and rage at him at the moment. He runs the towel gently, lovingly over her hair and up her legs, drying her off. Her wraps it around her and picks her up, cradling her in his arms. She nuzzles into his chest and closes her eyes. He brings her to her old room, lays her down on the bed, and strokes her hair until she falls asleep.

When she wakes he's sitting on the floor, shuffling a deck of cards.

She goes and sits across from him. "Are you okay?" she asks quietly.

He shrugs. "Are you?"

Violet doesn't answer. Tate starts dealing them each a hand.

"So what happens now?"

"You draw a card, and discard," Tate says. Violet looks down at her cards and smiles. She remembers that they've had this conversation before.

"A new family is coming today. Moira told me."

"Great. More people for this house to fuck up."

"Don't think like that. Everyone is always happy when a new family comes. It's a fresh start."

"Not for us."

"It is," Tate says softly. "Every time somebody new comes, we learn a little bit more about ourselves. We feel a little bit more complete."

"Bullshit."

"It's true," he says. He takes another card from the deck and tosses one from his hand into the discard pile.

"What did you learn when I moved in?" she asks, curious.

"That I'm not the monster I thought I was."

She wants to say bullshit again but he goes on before she gets the chance. "The night you died, I tried really hard to save you," he says. "Even though I knew if you died you'd be here with me forever. If I tried that hard, I can't be all fucked up, right? I mean... there has to be some good in here, somewhere."

And even though she knows she wants to and should fight the urge, she reaches out to him and gently squeezes his hand.

He smiles at her. "Maybe it will be your turn to learn something, this time."

"Maybe."

They play the rest of their game in silence, and wait for the new family to arrive.