A/N: Hey guys! So, like I mentioned in my last fic, I have started school up and it is pretty much sucking my will to live, BUT i want to keep writing and remain active in our wonderful fandom, hence this! Since I don't have time right now to sit down and bust out a proper fic, I am going to use this to post a series of drabbles. They won't necessarily contain the same pairing or have any continuity or even be in the same universe, but I will make sure to mention at the beginning of each chapter who the pairing is and what universe it's in and such.

So, this is my first of (hopefully) many little drabbles.

The Devil's Backbone

Pairing: Tate/Langdon

Universe: Gray Glube's and my 'Devils' universe.

Rating: T/M

Genre: Friendship/Romance

Enjoy!


Langdon rolls onto his hip and cups the underside of the pillow with his arm, watching his brother's eyes zip back and forth, watching Tate lick the pad of his finger and turn the page. He's been on a mission to read through everything Violet's got stuffed into her bookshelf. If she isn't willing to fuck him anymore, maybe if he reads up on Bronte and Plath she'll be coaxed into polite conversation at the least - yeah, he knows, but at this point, grasping at straws is all he's got.

The two broad-shouldered blonds are lazed out in the guest room, corralled inside by the mid-June drizzle. The more manic of the pair is nursing a stale cigarette he'd nicked from the crawlspace and puffing out each exhale into Tate's line of sight.

"Can we get wrinkles?"

"What."

Langdon rolls his eyes, put off by his brother's dismissive tone but undeterred.

"Because you, Sir Broods-A-Lot, should definitely have frown lines or something." He trails a long finger down between Tate's furrowed brows and over the straight line of his nose, offering him a drag when he reaches his mouth.

Tate accepts, wrapping his lips around the chewed filter and pulling in a breath, cheeks hollowing out. Langdon sighs, pauses to watch for the plume of smoke to unfurl before placing the cigarette back between his own teeth and propping up on one elbow.

"So... what're we reading today?"

Tate doesn't even look over, just chews a patch of dead skin at the swell of his lip and flips the page.

Langdon bristles with an indignant pout and, not one for being ignored, leans to nudge at the corner of Tate's book with the business end of his cigarette. It catches and breathes a radiant orange.

A puny flame climbs up one crisp edge.

"What the fuck, Langdon," Tate huffs, more exasperated than anything, effectively stamping out the blaze with the heel his hand and tossing the book safely to the floor when it's no longer smoking.

"Much better," Langdon grins, satisfied, rubbing out the cigarette in his palm and flicking it somewhere to their left - one of his favorite things about Murder House; around the clock maid service.

"What do you want?" Tate's voice holds no warmth, not even a tired fondness, just begrudged resignation. It's sad really, how listless he is when she's not around.

"Jesus, someone's in quite the mood today, what's got your panties in a twist?"

"...fuck off."

Langdon chuckles and beams and teeters over onto Tate's chest, covering his twin's body with his own, working a knee between his legs, elbows coming to rest at either side of Tate's head on the pillow.

"Okay, come on, spill."

They're face to face, wearing coordinating smiles and scowls, until Tate turns his in defiance, arms stiff at his sides. He stares blankly ahead at the opposite wall, at the peeling patch of wallpaper. The weight pressing him into the mattress isn't unwelcome, but he'd rather it were slighter, more spindly, with a sheet of ash hair to tickle his cheek.

Outside there's the sound of a horn honking and the squeal of brakes and after a short delay, the unmistakable crunch-mashing of metal.

"Is that what this is about, the whole gazebo whatever?" Langdon waves a careless hand at the whole debacle. "Listen, I said I was sorry, it's what she wanted. What was I gonna do - deny her? Right. And if I'm remembering correctly... you ended up killing me. I think that makes us about squaresies."

Tate's face darkens and he throws his brother a sideways glare, but when he inhales like he's about to speak, there's a hand curving over his mouth. It smothers whatever rebuttal he'd had incubating. His nostrils flare and he resists the childish urge to mold his tongue against the crease of Langdon's fingers.

Then there's a thumb pressing into the hollow under his chin to keep him still, firm enough to leave a bruise between his mandible

"It's quiet time," Langdon coos sweetly, the all over black in his eyes unusually soft as he wets his lips and ducks in to suck a web of kisses down the long line of his double's neck.

Tate makes to protest but then his twin is nipping at the start of his collarbone and grinding down in loose circles against his groin and he lets himself remember that before Violet, this was all he had. Langdon had suffered seventeen sorrow-sodden years with him.

Somewhere down the road an ambulance whirs up the street. It's followed by the blare of two fire engines and, a minute or two later, a police car, but the warning signs of death fade into the wet sounds of heavy breathing as Tate tips his head back to expose more of his throat and pushes underneath the hem of his brother's shirt to trace out the ridges of Langdon's backbone, the one he used to have, the one Violet keeps telling him he needs back.


A/N: Thanks for reading!

Since most of these will be between 500-1000 words, feel free to PM me with little prompts. It would be fun to try and fill some mini requests with this silly thing. xx