A/N: So its been a while since I last wrote a fic, but I'm having a bunch of OTP feels and I needed to write Violate.

Summary: Tate Langon is a psychopathic murder too 'sick' to be sent to jail who is sentenced to life in at Briarcliff Manor. There he meets many of its residents, and one in particular catches his attention:Violet, the girl with the scars on her wrists. Meanwhile, the Asylum takes its toll on the minds of everyone inside. Will Violet help Tate keep what little sanity he has left? Or will the darkness of Briarcliff consume them both...

Disclaimer: I dont own the places or characters. If I did, Evan Peters would be wearing much less clothes.

Rating:T

Chapter One: Tate

Tate Langdon had never been in a mental institution. In fact, the idea of even stepping foot in one had never even crossed his mind. From day one, the plan had been simple: take out as many poor bastards as he could before the cops took him out. His ending would involve no jail time, no dealing with his bitch of a mother… just death.

But Tate's life had never gone according to plan. He hadn't planned for the cops to make it to his house before he did. He hadn't expected them to be waiting for him with handcuffs and chains that they threw on so fast, he didn't even know what had hit him before he was shoved to the ground, hands restrained tightly behind his back. And he most defiantly hadn't planned on being locked away in a loony bin for life.

Sure, he wasn't normal. He was about as far from normal as someone could get. He didn't see the world like a normal teenage boy –or anyone for that matter-would. Instead of thinking about school and girls, his mind was filled with nothing but images of violence and gore. He could never bring himself to feel anything but anger and disgust for the world and all the people in it. To him, the planet was dirty, full or pain and suffering and evil. It was a fucking horror show. Nothing in it was pure.

Nothing but blood.

Blood cleaned impurities out. It spilled from the inside, untainted and fresh, covering his hands, his body, his world, in red. With blood came the peace and beauty of death. It brought Tate relief, and release from this world. It cured him of the constant itch under his skin, the hollowness in his bones, the voices in his head. It made him feel whole again. When he had a weapon in his hand, drawing that beautiful blood with a power that could only come from pure hatred, his mind finally felt clear. It felt right.

Sometimes, Tate thought, he was doing people a service. He wasn't their murderer, he was their savior. He removed them from the piss and the rot and the stench of the world. He saved them from the darkness that corrupted even the purest of souls, and he sent them to a better place… At least, that's how he saw it sometimes.

At other times, he just didn't want to have to look at their disgusting faces anymore.

Sure, he wasn't normal. But he wasn't crazy, and he sure as hell didn't want to go through the rest of his life surrounded by people who were. He could imagine himself, sitting in some padded room alone with his thoughts, tormented by the screams of those he had killed, but still itching somewhere deep inside to kill again. He would be alone with himself. That idea disturbed him far more than the company of lunatics would. Now he was going to be stuck here forever.

He wished the cops would have just shot him dead right in his room.

At least then it would be over already.

Slowly, Tate felt his containment truck ease to a stop, and large, armored doors were pried open with a rusty screech. Daylight flooded into the back of the car, and the blonde squinted his eyes, attempting to adjust his vision as a large gated building rose up in front of him. It was huge, about the size of a hospital, with red brick walls that had already seen too many winters, and a pointed roof that seemed to pierce the sky. After a moment, an armed guard yanked at his restraints, making sure they were secure, then shoved him out of the truck. Tate stumbled for a moment and swore, his cuffed hands making it hard for him to keep his balance, then regained his footing, noticing for the first time the people in space before him.

Reporters and photographers lined the path up the ward, the bulbs of their cameras flashing unceasingly. They angry shouted questions at him, some of which were almost downright laughable, and Tate threw them a taunting look, trying to push their buttons. But inside he was shaking with a mixture of anger and fear. More guards came up to surround him, whether it was to protect him from the crowd or the crowd from him, Tate wasn't sure, but he decided to believe it was the latter.

"Take a good look at the real world," The guard to his left said as he shoved him forward roughly. " Cause you're not getting out of this place. They never do."

Tate said nothing, blood pounded in his ears, his mind running through all the ways he could rip the smug look off of the mans face if his hands weren't cuffed. He imagined taking a knife to his mouth and carving him up like a pumpkin. The idea wasn't half bad, and it made his head spin with a thousand more possibilities.

He was still thinking these things when they shut the gates behind him, drowning out the sound of the reporters and cameras. Even when he entered the ward, its cold stone walls rising up around him like a fortress, the thoughts wouldn't leave.

They were his addiction, his drug, his only escape.

They kept him company as he was led through the halls of what would soon become the rest of his life, his eyes falling upon his surroundings but taking nothing in, as he let the darkness consume him.

A/N: Okay Guys, so I hope to be updating this pretty regularly, with it being Nanowrimo and all! The next chapter should be longer than this, but its one a.m. and I have a Chem test in the morning. haha. Anyways, constructive criticism is always welcome! Mostly, I'm wondering about his voice, does it need improving? Please help me out! This is a learning process!
Review's are lovely :)