Warning: Incest – if you don't like it, that's totally cool, just don't read, okay? Minor Dub-Con. Rapey vibes(?). I just couldn't get this chapter quite right. I may come back at some point and rework it. But it was time to move on.

Tate & Violet, Rated – M

Disclaimer – I do not own American Horror Story. Only the idea for this fic is mine.

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Summer, 1994

"Do you want to play Scrabble?" She scoffed, refusing to look at him even though he was right in front of her, pacing. "Okay, chess?" He grinned, "I'll even let you win."

"No." His sister scowled at the floor, his busted black chucks. She hadn't needed him to let her win since she was ten years old; Tate didn't have a head for chess. He was too rash. Everything was impulse and reaction for her brother. It was what had always gotten him, them, into trouble. She sighed, tired again. Always so tired.

He glared. Her attitude was grating on him.

"Fuck, Violet. Why have you been such a bitch lately?" He huffed, sick of it, of her behavior. What was the point of being dead, together, if she was going to practically ignore him? The only time she acknowledged his existence was at night, in the dark, tucked into his side, his arms around her. But he wanted more. A lot more. And she was refusing him. Not so much in words but in her actions. And Violet did not refuse him. It just didn't happen. Tate did not handle rejection, seeming or otherwise, well. "Fine," he stepped around the couch, "if you're going to be like this then I'll go to the basement and..."

"Spend time with Mommy number two?" she interrupted, voice clipped, shoulders stiff.

Tate's eyes narrowed, "What?"

"Nothing," she dismissed him with a wave of her hand. His sister had never been dismissive of him, always hanging on his every word, every whim. Or at least she gave the appearance of doing so. And she wanted him to fucking leave. What the fuck was happening? "Do whatever the fuck you want. Lift that fucking beaded gown and slide underneath. Get what it is you've really been missing, needing, all these years from Mommy Dearest."

Before he could think about it, register what he was doing, he had taken two long strides coming up behind Violet. Her hair, hanging in a long silken wave, wrapped so easily, so quickly around his wrist, his forearm, and he tugged, yanking her head back violently so that it knocked against the back of the brown velvet sofa. "What the fuck did you say?"

"You heard me," she told him, gaze passive as always, making him crazy, driving him over the edge.

"Fucking bitch," he ground out, wrenching his arm back further, harder.

Her eyes were cold, like steel, "What's the problem, Tate? Can't get it up unless little sis is there? Need me to warm you up?" She smirked nastily up at him. He fucking hated, loved, that mean little smirk. "Or maybe you need me to warm her up? Sad, spooky little boys don't do it for Nora? I always was the one with the balls of the two of us. If it weren't for me you'd have died a virgin, jerking off in your room until you came blood, thinking about me wet in the shower." Violet was riling him up, working him, making him angry on purpose. If her brother wanted to be a piece of shit, she would treat him like one.

"You're all I wanted!" He exploded, face twisting into a mask of anger, of betrayal.

"I'm all you had!" Violet returned just as furiously. Her ire could never match his, not for violence or intensity, but it spoke volumes, slashed him like razors, tore him open. It was just as terrible. Maybe worse. No one could hurt Tate aside from his sister and he despised the reminder. But what she said pricked at his heart. Something told him to hold back his anger as he mulled over her words.

There was a long pause, silence descending outside of their heavy, unneeded, breathing. Finally, expression somewhere between fury, revulsion, and absolute abject melancholy, Tate challenged, "Is that what you really think?"

Her eyes were closed as she bit her lip, hair still straining against her scalp. She looked like she might cry. But Violet never cried. She was the strong one. The one who defended him from Constance, from the filthy horror show outside their small cocoon of two. Even though she was the smaller, the younger. Even though he liked to pretend that he was in charge, that he was the protector. And she had always let him.

Violet had stopped being a meek little girl years earlier. Before she took his virginity, made him a man, and found that he was so wholly devoted to her, that she had ruined him for all others. Before she knew he would kill for her, die for her. Though she had probably always suspected.

But then he saw it, them: the glistening dew drops, the heartbreaking tears, sliding down her cheeks.

Nora had always been there for him as a young child; when Constance was out, or plastered, or just couldn't be bothered. But she had never shown an interest in Violet. And Tate had never thought much of it, doubted his sister would care, but what if she had? What if she feared, even then, all those years later, that he would choose Nora over her? Hadn't he always in turn been there for her? Didn't she know that no one compared to her? That he would burn down the fucking house, savage their world, just to be near her, to be loved by her?

The room was quiet aside from her gentle hiccups, occasional sniffs, and her brother was at a loss for what to do. The situation was so impossibly new.

First, he released her, letting her pull up her head, her hair falling protectively around her face, shielding her from his view. Second, he climbed over the back of the couch, slowly, afraid to scare the girl beside him. "Violet?"

She wouldn't look at him, hiding behind her curtain of dark blond. He could just make out her dusky plum colored lips and suddenly and probably inappropriately he could think of nothing but kissing them. It had been so long, countless, endless days, since he had done anything more than hold her, and he was desperate, aching. Her body under his, above him, around him. The mewling noises, her moans, panting in his ear, teeth tugging where his neck met his shoulder.


The last time that he had been with his sister he had already been dead but she was alive, breathing, gasping with relief that he wasn't truly gone, not completely taken from her, still dressed in her black shift from the funeral service, family and friends just downstairs.

He had sworn to himself it was the last time. He just needed to feel her ripe little body in his arms, his cock pounding into her, before he let go. His goodbye. She would never leave the house if she knew, really knew, that he was like Nora, trapped there for all eternity. And he wanted her to grow up, become a stunning woman, have a life away from him and Constance, away from the shit that had made up their existence. It was the most selfless thought of his life; that he cared more about her, her feelings, than his own. But he should have stayed away completely if that was how he really felt.

Maybe he had only been fooling himself, pretending, playing another game. Because Tate knew her, better than anyone, knew how she was. She was his whole world, his reason for living, his reason for dying. And he was inherently selfish.

After, he had disappeared, refused to show himself to her. He let her think she had imagined it, conjured up a fantasy, as she drifted into madness and loss. Violet's grief was a vast ocean that she could not pull herself out of.

She fucking killed herself. Constance's freshly refilled prescription of Valium disappearing down her throat, a bottle of vodka as the chaser.

Deep down he recognized that perhaps it had been his plan all along; though in the beginning he was unable to recognize it for what it was. Tate always wanted to be a good person. Wanted to believe that he loved her more than himself, that he would never let anyone hurt her, would protect her, always. But the one she had needed most protection from was him. And he couldn't stand that fact, so he dismissed it, ignored it. He was the darkness. And in a way, he had killed her.

And then they were both fucking dead and Violet was so fucking sad and so tired. And maybe she knew. Maybe she blamed him. Maybe that was why she was punishing him, denying him access to her body, her soul, the things most precious to him.


Tate's mind was black. His focus shifted to breaking shit, tearing the heart out of one of the other ghosts, feeding himself to that little fucking monster in the basement. Because any other kind of hurt would feel better than the one he was currently feeling. The one where Violet ignored him, hated him. The one where she didn't want him.

"I just," she stumbled over her words, mouth wet, hands tucked between her thighs.

"What?" He inched closer, hand sliding up and across her bare leg to wrap his fingers around her own.

Her eyes remained downcast so her brother used his free hand to brush strands of damp hair behind her ear, wanting so desperately to see her face. His chest ached as his tongue darted out to moisten his lips, imagining lapping up her tears, tasting their salt, his dick twitching, straining.

"…can't stand the thought of you wanting her." Violet's perfect white teeth flashed, brutally snapping at her lower lip. "Being with her," she drew a rasping breath, "the way you're with me." Her eyes finally sought his, wide and so incredibly lost, filled with pain, revulsion. "It's only supposed to be me." Her voice sounded pitiful to her own ears.

Exhaling in a rush Tate breathed, "It is only you, Violet." She shook her head, turned her eyes back to the crease of her thighs.

His own sister didn't believe him and Tate felt the momentarily dim light of his fury reignite, blaze and burn inside of him. He never fucking lied to her. She fucking knew that. How dare she question him?

Placing a hand on her shoulder, grip tight enough to bruise, gaze dark and penetrating, he shook her. Hard. Once, twice. His sister's teeth rattled, her head lolling back and forth like a ragdoll but her miserable countenance never changed as her eyes remained flat and dead.

"You don't believe me?" He hissed. She didn't reply, staring emotionlessly at her lap. That empty expression was the last thing, it broke him, destroyed his resolve. He loved for her, wanted to take care of her, give her time and space, but she made it impossible. She was forcing him to act, to prove himself, to make her understand. He didn't want to. He didn't enjoy hurting her.

"Fuck you," Tate seethed, wrenching his other hand away from her cold fingers, shoving his sister down onto her back, her head knocking into the arm of the sofa, face surprised, mouth forming a delicate 'o' as the air rushed out of her lungs. "I'll fucking show you it's only you, if you're going to be such a fucking little cunt."

Violet gasped when her took hold of each wrist in one hand, stretching her arms above her to the point of pain, holding her in place, as his knee rammed up between her thighs, forcing them wide. "What the fuck, Tate?" His sister yelped, fighting him, "Get the fuck…"

"Shut up," he demanded, his other hand clamping over her mouth, as she struggled, kicking out her legs, cursing behind his hand, teeth scraping the taught flesh there as she tried to bite him.

"I said shut the fuck up, Violet." There was no emotion in his voice, just a raw malevolence. "Do you see what you make me do?" He growled. "All I fucking wanted was to be there for you, to take care of you. I was so fucking patient, Violet. Waiting," he raged, "you made me wait, made me want you, and pushed me away. How could you do that to me?" His tone was the edge of a knife. "You love me. I'm your brother." His eyes were wild, spit trailing down his lip, his chin, as he roared, "You have to love me!"

Tate was nodding along with his words, caught up in a whirlwind of anger and resentment, fueled by his deepest seated fears, as she gazed up at him, frightened doe eyes locked on his dark stare, even darker than usual, filled with desire and venom. She stopped fighting, unable to move, like a small woodland creature trapped by a predator, a snake, he held her enthralled. "You just need to be reminded," he told her as his hand, the one on her wrists, slowly released her and moved down her body, slithering over her torso, between her legs, and to his fly, his zipper, which he all but tore open.

Staring down at her face he couldn't help but think that his sister was just so fucking beautiful; her eyes misty as she struggled to breath against his palm as he continued to cover her mouth and most of her nose.

He was fucking pissed off and she was being a cunt but slowly he removed his hand, let her take one hiccupping breath, before he leaned down and kissed her, driving her lips apart to probe her mouth with his tongue, his hand inching back up to grasp her wrists in a excruciating grip.

She was so hot, wet. So delicious. So Violet. And he almost came on the spot, holding himself above her quivering diminutive body. His hips rocked between her thighs, nudging his erection against the heat between her legs. And she sighed, a broken sound, her body no longer stiff, rigid, but growing pliant and willing.

His sister was only wearing one of his flannel shirts, a pair of cotton panties the only real barrier between them. Tate loved seeing her in his clothes, always had, right back to when they were still little kids. It made her smell like him and his shirts smell like her. It marked her out as his. Had done so even before he began leaving purple, red, black bruises on her skin with his mouth and his fingers.

It was a shame to ruin the shirt but he wasn't thinking about that as his hand slid up her body to grope at her breast, roughly tweaking the nipple and making her release a small, desperate sob. Tate wrenched his, her, shirt open, buttons flying and soaked in the sight of her with hungry eyes.

Her brother, he always had to take. He was so demanding, so needy. It was always about him. But part of her, the part that wasn't furious with his brutish behavior, was relieved. He still wanted her. Was so keyed up that he would take her however he had to. It wasn't that blond bitch in the basement always cooing over him. He still needed the one person who had always been there for him, loved him every second of her existence. Even if he was a shithead. A psychopath.

But did he have to be such a goddamned asshole about it? He was all reaction. Want, do, take, have.

Violet had needs to, desires. And she had felt unimportant, unwanted. Tate always storming off to the basement. She had fucking killed herself for him and before she could even properly get her head around it, he was sulking. In the beginning, those first days, after all the pills, she could barely lift her head, her arms, from the bed. And there was her brother, appearing behind her, wrapping himself up in her body, pressing his dick into her ass. What did he want from her? To know what it was like to rape someone unconscious? Because that was just about all she could have offered him. Instead, he took it personally. Pouted to Nora who was more than happy soothe him. Just as she always had been. Fucking bitch. She was as bad as Constance. He just didn't see it.

But now? She could do this now. Be with him. Her continued depression had only been a response to his presumed rejection. So when her brother dragged his knuckle along the soaked crotch of her panties Violet groaned. "Tate," her hips tilted upward, making him smirk as his hair hung down in his face, falling into his eyes. His fingertips clawed at cotton, wrenching it to the side, as he sunk two fingers deep within her, humming softly to himself.

The wet sounds his fingers made as he pulled out and drove back into her aching chasm were obscene. She was so wet for him. Tate was barely able to contain himself as he withdrew, his hand burning a path over her bare hip as he leaned into the cradle of her thighs and ran the bulbous head of his cock against her. His sister, writhing and gorgeous beneath him, moaned, deep and throaty, as he swept his mouth across hers.

"Violet," it was that silly little boy voice he reserved only for her. She bit her lip in response, wide eyes taking him in as her pelvis thrust upward, desperate to have him inside her. It has been so long and she had been so lonely for his touch but afraid to ask for it, afraid to see the refusal on his beautiful face.

To be with him for eternity, cradled against him, but to have him keep his hands safely on her hips or around her waist, for his lips to stray no further than her hair, to have him acting the part of a brother, only a brother, the idea had been almost more than she could bear. She had chosen ignorance instead though it had been far from bliss.

"If I let you go," he grinned, voice low, like they were tucked up in the dark sharing secrets, "do you promise to be a good girl?"

Her brother could vacillate between ruthless, demeaning, and blessedly sweet, childlike, in the matter of a heartbeat. Sometimes his behavior just about gave her whiplash. But she loved both sides of him. The good boy and the bad. Because really, she could be two people as well. And Tate had always craved both.

She nodded, left her arms above her as he positioned himself at her cunt and rammed into her waiting body without another word or thought. His sister's breath caught in her throat, legs locking around his hips, her jagged sharp edges digging into his muscles. Her mouth was open, eyes rolled back, neck lifted and extended. He took that as an invitation and immediately set to the task of leaving a mark, something fresh and bloody and blooming. Her first after death.

Violet's hips rose to meet his in a fierce collision as her hands moved, fingers winding their way into his dirty, bleached locks. And he was lifting her up from the cushions, hands behind her back, pulling her up to sit on his thighs, before falling back against the rough velvet behind him, leaving his sister to ride him. Fuck, he couldn't get enough of watching her do that.

"Mmm, Tate," she hummed. "Missed you. So much. Oh, please, Tate," her palms were on his face as his hands grasped her hips, guiding her, helping her move above him as he stared up in awe.

"You mean," he panted, thrown, "you still want me? Even after..."

"Always want you. Only you," she sighed, her face hidden amidst her hair.

"But you've been so..."

She looked up at him, lower lip caught between her teeth as her eyes closed in bliss. He held his breath, waiting. "Thought you didn't want me anymore," she told him finally, guiltily.

It was so fucking hard to focus, to form words, with his sister's sweet cunt sucking and pulling at his dick. "How could I ever not want you, this?" His gaze fell on the place where their bodies joined, watching as he impaled her on himself, as her body lifted up, leaving his cock slick and coated in her juices, before sliding back down. It was just so fucking perfect.

She shrugged, hands moving to his chest, shoving his t-shirt up so that she had access to his pale flesh. Her lips descended to take a nipple into her mouth, grazing it with her teeth. Tate hissed, thrusting violently upward making Violet squeak, her eyes closing.

"You died," she told him, panting, chest stuttering to rise and fall, to accommodate her body's need for oxygen. "You left me."

"Everything I did was for you, Violet. All of it."

"But I didn't ask you to. Wouldn't have." She was so close.

Tate desperately wanted to respond, to argue, but he had lost all ability to speak. Instinct took over, driving him up, into her, rough and sloppy. But she was right along with him, gasping and groaning, folded in half, body boneless. Violet's fingers clutched at his shoulders, grasping for purchase, as her cunt spasmed and clenched around him, mouth dropping open in a silent scream.

It only took her brother a handful of upward thrusts before he joined her, arms wrapping around Violet's torso, crushing her sweat soaked body to his, as his eyes slammed shut, a series of grunts escaping him, as he filled her, left her overflowing with his sticky cum. It had been too long, built up. Her thighs would be sticky for days. For eternity, if he had his way.

Tate breathed in, out, chest heaving, before rolling them. His sister was silent, allowing him to maneuver her onto her side next to him, crowding her on half of the sofa, his hands in her hair, skimming down her neck, over her breast, and onto the smooth plane of her stomach.

Her fingers danced across his cheek, skipped along his nose, pulled at his lower lip. With a sigh she told him in a whisper, "I didn't want to die." Violet was unable to see him through the darkness of her closed eyelids and was glad of it. She hated to hurt him. But he had to know.

Tate's fingers stilled on her body. "I tried to save you," he replied, voice petulant, a hint of a whine. "You just took so many pills, Violet."

She knew that. She didn't want him to have saved her. That wasn't her regret. Violet wished that neither of them had died. That Tate had let it go, had stayed in bed with her that morning rather than leaving. That they could have grown up together, left home, run from Constance and built a life together somewhere else where no one knew them. Where they could have learned to be happy. Just as they were.

But her dreams had died with Tate. There had been nothing left for her.

"I wouldn't," she shook her head, amended, "couldn't live without you. Without you, there was no me." When she opened her eyes, nervous, afraid of his reaction, the hurt she would see, she was surprised. Tate wasn't upset, instead he radiated pleasure.

His lips crashed into hers, mouth greedy, and she yielded without thought, giving herself over.

"We're one," he told her seriously, pulling away, and she gazed at him with those big eyes. "We were born for each other, to be together. And now," he breathed, a small rakish smile gracing his visage, "we can be together forever. And Mama can't do a fucking thing about it."

Violet's face turned stony. The mere thought, mention of that woman, their mother, the one who had made her life hell for so many years, who had been the ultimate cause of their deaths, left her cold. "Get rid of her," she told him finally.

"You want me to kill Constance?" He asked, surprise painting his face.

His sister shook her head, silken strands of hair cascading over her shoulders to brush her pert bare breasts, rub against his chest, tickling him. "We'd be stuck with her then. I just want her out of the fucking house. Away from me, from us. Can you do that? For me?" She bit her lip, waiting. She had been manipulating her brother most of her life and death certainly hadn't changed that.

He needed guidance, a hand to lead him down the path. Of the two of them, she was the strong one. He needed her strength, was drawn to it. She filled holes that would otherwise grow into gaping maws of hell and torment. His sister channel his energies instead. She played the long game while her brother played the short. She planned, he acted. And when they put their heads together, two against the world, they were unbeatable, unstoppable.


The house went on the market in less than two weeks. Constance fled screaming into the night. Violet and Tate watched her go from the large front window on the second floor, his arm draped carelessly over his sister's shoulders, her hand tucked into the back pocket of this torn, faded jeans. "Thank you," she whispered, lips against his chest, breath hot against his t-shirt, and Tate gripped her just a little closer, a little tighter.

Next, she would find a way to rid them of Nora. Mothering was something Violet and Tate Langdon were through with.