Hello again, lovelies. OMG I wanted to say THANK YOU for all the amazing responses I have had to this. I don't know who to tell you how happy it makes me feel, knowing there are people out there who like my story. I'm sorry it's been so long since I updated, the holidays have made things a bit cray cray around here. But I do have this chapter, and the next, hand written. So never fear, the story WILL GO ON! (And boy does this chapter go on. I couldn't find a good place to cut it before the end. It was all too important to me. But hey, you all like long chapters, right?) Anyway, I thought you all deserved a nice (late) Christmas treat, so here you go. Some smut and… *drum roll* the return of Violate! Pleasant Screams, my Murder House guests! VT
The African swallow, Tate's bird of the week. Well, it was now that he had found a book on them in what had been Ben's study. It had been a library when his family had lived there, mostly because it had already been filled with books from the previous owners. That was what this house was, a collection of the belongings of the previous occupants. And of course the previous occupants themselves. No one made it through this house unscathed. But Tate had never seen this book among the hundreds that lined the many many shelves of this house. It was actually a welcome find; something he hoped would take his mind off Violet. But now it was doing nothing. The writing might as well have been in French. Tate couldn't focus. His mother had tried to attack Violet. And what's worse, Tate had let her go. It hadn't been easy. The basement had felt the brunt of his frustration, a good quarter of it lay in shambles, but he had allowed Constance to walk free. The thought made Tate's blood boil, made the dark voices in his head chatter on with what he could do to her when she returned, but Tate knew he never would. Not because she was his mother, but because Tate didn't know if he could even attack her. He didn't know if he could go through with the violence. He really was tired of hurting people. It used to be fun for him; the violence was actually fun. Well, fun wasn't really the right word. It was a release, it kept the voices quiet. It was almost necessary. But that didn't mean it didn't come easy. For Tate killing someone back then came as easy as putting on a Nirvana album. Fun and exciting every time.
But now something stopped him. And this little bullshit exchange with Constance wasn't the first one he had walked away from. No, there had been others throughout the years, ones that Violet wasn't even there to see, wasn't there to stop him. Of course, the first was when the people from the bank had come into the house; wanting to look over what Ben had left behind, see what could be resold and what had to be trashed and just how much blood there was lying around the house. They were the ones who found Violet's body. That was the first time Tate let someone walk away, when the morgue guys called her names as they took his decaying angel from her hiding place. They called her things like 'emo freak' and 'pathetic goth', insults Tate only half understood. He wanted to rip them limb from limb, slit their throats and break their spines. But he didn't, he stood in the shadowy corner of Violet's room, invisible to even her as they both watched her body leave the house in the way her spirit never would. Every time someone tried to get into her room, Tate had to make sure he only scared them, only got them to leave without actually hurting them too badly. A few bruises, maybe a scratch or two, but they would live. He knew he could still do it, if he needed to, but he knew that he wouldn't. He hadn't hurt anyone in so long, not since right after Vivien died. And that was only at her behest. No, Tate was a changed man. He might never be truly good, but he wasn't the darkness Violet accused him of being. Not anymore.
But he couldn't be there with Violet after Constance was there. Tate couldn't be around anyone, not when the pull was that strong. He didn't want to do anything to scare Violet, to make her think he was still the monster she was afraid of. But the basement couldn't hold him forever, and Tate had made a promise to never leave her on her own. Once he was calmer, once he wasn't about to rip off his mother's head in a very literal sense, he headed back to the hall outside Violet's room, with the book in hand. But the voices, the darkness, it wasn't quite done with him. They kept picking at his mind, sending him images of bloody times, like the ones he used to tell Ben about when he was pretending he was normal and alive. The images that made him not sure if he was awake or asleep, if he could actually sleep anymore. He hadn't slept since he was with Violet, since they were happy and they slept together, holding each other after making love.
There was nothing like when they were intimate. The tiny noises she made when he kissed down her body. She liked it when he nipped at the crook of her neck, and the underside of her perfect breast. Not hard, not enough to break skin, just enough to leave red marks, bruises sometimes. Tate liked when he left bruises on her, it was like he was marking her as his own. Only he had touched her there, only he knew how to draw those noises out of her. It was those times that he knew she was his, and only his. No matter how much she hated him now, Tate would remember how she sounded when he kissed down her body. The little whimpers she made in-between whispering his name as his kisses dipped down to the band of her tights, as if urging him on, begging for him to just get to it already. But he knew how much she loved the buildup, and Tate loved being tender with her. Even the times when he wasn't so gentle, Tate still showed Violet how much he loved her, each lust filled kiss poured true love down on her. Oh, and when he finally got to taste that pussy, all sweet and bright pink and dripping with her desire for him. She tasted like light and innocence and all things good and pure.
Tate's eyes closed, his palm mashing into the crotch of his jeans, remembering how sweet she tasted. This wasn't the first time he had lost control like this, when his fantasies became just too much for him and he had to take matters into his own hands. After all, he was condemned to be a teenage boy for all of eternity, and teenage boys were nothing more than walking testosterone. Hayden was right, Tate did miss sex. But only with Violet, no matter how much he wanted to fuck, he only wanted to be with Violet. Tate could almost feel his imaginary Violet run her fingers through his hair, gentle at first but as her desire began to build, goaded on by his tongue flicking against her clit, she'd grip harder. Once she started yanking it, her breath hitching, he'd slide his middle finger in knuckle deep. Instantly drenched, she was always so wet for him, he'd pump it in and out, coaxing her towards the edge. Her hips start bucking; she's unable to contain her moans. Tate loves it when she moans, the sounds are so addicting. He knows she is close, and he can't wait to taste her lust. Tate slides a second finger inside her, fucking her into a frenzy with his hand and mouth. This is probably his favorite part, his innocent flower acting anything but pure. Tate feels Violet spasm around his hand, her juices flowing freely as she screams his name. Tate feels his dick twitch, stiff and ready to plunge into her. But Tate takes a moment to shower her with kisses, letting her body ride out her climax.
Only once she is ready again does he slide his big cock inside her. Tate's first instinct is to find a slow, deep rhythm but he's already too close. He pulls her up into his lap, keeping a tight grip on her hips. Tate lifts Violet only to slam her back down onto him. He's kissing along her jaw, down her throat, taking her stiff nipples into his mouth, her hot breath in his ear. She's telling him she loves him and, oh god, how good he feels inside her. He bites down on her neck, enough to leave a little love mark there for a few hours. It sends her over the edge again, her body gripping down on his dick, pulling his own orgasm out of him. He moans against her hot skin, his eyes closing as he pulls her tight against him. This is what love is supposed to feel like. Suddenly a loud bang in the room makes his eyes snap open.
Tate looked around the hall, his hand down his pants and his hot seed leaving a stand on his jeans. Fuck, he really did need to get laid. But that bang was real, more real than the Violet he had just been with, and he had to see what was causing such a noise so close to his beloved. First thing he noticed was Violet's door was no longer in place, but then he saw the form laying on top of it, that honey hair covering her face as she lay there, unable to get up. And then the blood, all that blood, flowing across her door, staining the wood. Tate felt his heart clench, he couldn't breath, he couldn't even move at first. But this feeling wasn't new, he had felt this all-consuming terror once before. The night she died. Tate jumped to his feet, looking down at himself and was grateful that being a ghost meant clean clothes could be as easy as a thought, and then rushed to her side.
"Violet?" Tate felt tears springing to his eyes; he knew this was his fault. It was always his fault, the darkness's fault. But she'd promised. She had promised she wouldn't cut herself anymore. Violet's eyes tried to focus on Tate, but they only rolled back into her head as her body fell limp in his hands. Tate carefully scooped her up into his arms, there was no need to drag her down the hall in a hurry this time, and began to take her from her room. Time didn't really matter anymore, there was no saving her this time, only making her feel more comfortable when she came back to him. Tate had been fit when he died; he had only been off the track team little more than a month before his little episode at Westfield High. He could easily pick up and carry his waif of an ex down the hall.
"What did you do this time, Norman Bates JR? She wouldn't sleep with you and so you decided to kill her. Reminder, Elvira is already dead." Tate had made it only a few steps down the hall before someone appeared in his way. Tate narrowed his eyes. If he hadn't had time for Hayden before, he definitely didn't have time for this queen now. Tate tried to push past Chad, but the bigger man simply stepped in his way, blocking Tate's escape route. For everyone being afraid of the darkness inside him, the other occupants of the house sure did like trying to bring it out of him. Tate looked down at Violet, his light, as she moaned in pain. Couldn't this fucking fag see her arm? How could Tate had done something like that to her? Tate was helping her, not hurting her. He had hurt her more than he had ever meant to already. He never wanted to do that again.
"I didn't do this, she did. Now get the fuck out of my way." Tate growled, pulling Violet's body closer to himself. He could feel her blood soaking thought his shirt, the hot wet liquid blooming red across his chest in a very nostalgic way. Chad laughed in his flamboyant fashion, reaching out to lift a lock of Violet's hair off her face, holding it between two fingers as if he didn't really want to touch her. Like she was somehow beneath him. Tate always hated Chad's high and mighty attitude, and every time he started acting like this Tate took pleasure in remember just how he had died. He wasn't so proud when he was getting the shit beat out of him. Even less so when he choked on his own bile in the basement, trying so desperately to cling to life Tate had already decided to take from him. Now was not the time to reminisce, and before Chad got the chance to come up with another sharped tongue remark, Tate decided he had had enough.
"Go away, Chad." Before he finished his blink, Chad was gone and the hall was clear.
No one else came between Tate and Violet's old bathroom, thankfully, and with a sense of déjà vu Tate placed Violet carefully in the tub, making sure to tuck her arms inside before turning on the hottest water he could. He was thankful the water had been turned back on by the people coming in the fix up the place. There had been almost a year between showers for some of them, and while the ghosts didn't really need them, sometimes Tate had wished they would take one. Death stunk, and even the ghosts of the bodies left behind smelled like rotting flesh if left alone for too long.
Though tears were still falling down his face, Tate made no desperate plea for Violet to come back to him. She would in time, this was different, if no less painful for him. Even temporary death was not something he wanted to see Violet go through. After making sure he locked the door, Tate turned to face Violet again. It felt like a lifetime ago he had dragged her down the hall, confused and afraid, screaming and begging her not to die on him. He never wanted her trapped in this place. That time he had climbed into the tub, holding her close to him. But now he didn't. He had learned his kisses wouldn't save her; he couldn't coax her back into her body. This time he sat on the floor, his back pressed into the door, and watched her. The hot water began to wash the blood off Violet and her clothes, the deep red turning pink before being lost to the world. Lost like they all were. Tate began twisting his thumb ring around his thumb, watching Violet's unconscious ghost body. She'd never done this before, never died after death, and Tate had no idea how long she would be out. It always depended: who it was, why they were dead again, how they 'killed' themselves. Some spirits could stay awake through the most horrible dismemberments, while others faded from minor assaults. Tate could remember Moira blasting her brains out to kill a few hours, while Tate himself had been beaten within an inch of his afterlife only to keep coming back for more.
"Violet, why now?" Tae bit down on his bottom lip, looking at Violet as the hot water continued to beat down on her. "How long have you been cutting yourself again?" Steam was filling up the room, but Tate didn't bother with the exhaust fan. The oppressive, damp heat actually felt good to Tate. He was just glad he could feel anything right then. "You know you can't die again, so why try and kill yourself? Was it because of me? Because you saw me again? Is talking to me that miserable? Do you hate me that much? It didn't sound like it. Violet, I don't understand. You told me to leave you alone, so I did what I could. But did you really think I would leave you unprotected? I swore I wouldn't let anyone hurt you. I told you I would always be here. And I will. You are all I've ever wanted; even when I didn't know you existed. Even when I didn't know what to ask for." Tate stood up, suddenly feeling restless. He went over to Violet, checking to make sure the water was still warm. He thought she might like being warm and clean when she came back. Better than cold and still covered in her ghostly blood. Still, if she didn't wake soon, he would have to take her back to her room. It was too much for him to hope none of the occupants would notice the shower on.
"I'll always be here; I'll wait forever for you. But you can't… you shouldn't." Tate sighed, pacing again as his fists balled up at his sides. He wanted to hurt something, break something, and find a way to get all these emotions out. "I don't know how to fix this, Violet. You're all alone, that isn't right. You have your mom, sure, but she doesn't give you the companion you need. The love you deserve. I want to save you. I want to take away your pain, to see you smile again. But I don't know how. I've done everything I can think of to show you I can be what you need again. That I have changed and you can trust me again. But it isn't enough. Will it ever be enough? I don't expect you to forget what I've done. I don't even want you to. And I know you can't forgive me. But I wish you could, I don't fucking know. Move past it. Give us a fresh start. I'm not going anywhere, neither are you. We can't keep this up. It's killing you." Tate finally stopped pacing and knelt next to the bathtub. Gently he brushed a lock of Violet's hair out of her face before picking up her hand, lacing their fingers together. Their hands fit so well together, in Tate's mind it was just another sign they were meant to be together.
"It's killing your light. Vi, if you can't move on from this, it will eat you alive. You'll become dark and twisted. You'll become like me."
Tate knelt next to Violet until the water ran cold, getting wet from the spray without complaint, as he waited for her to come back. He was expecting her to yell at him, send him away, and he would be ok with that this time. Just as long as he knew she was safe. Her arm was whole again, the brilliant red cuts faded back to the pink pattern she had the day she died. No matter how many times she cut now she's always have the same scars. 26 beautiful scars, each one a part of the girl Tate loved. Why wasn't she coming back? Surely she should be back on this side by now. Hours had passed, hadn't they? Days maybe. Tate turned off the water, he didn't want her to wake up cold, then rummaged around in the bathroom cupboards until he found an old fluffy towel, once white but now slightly yellowed with age and neglect. But instead of wrapping Violet up in it right away he picked her up again, her clothes wet and her hair dripping, back to her room. He carefully sat her on the floor before putting her door back in place and locking it shut. He can hear his own voice, mocking him, reminding him of one of the first things he had ever said to her.
"If you're trying to kill yourself, you might also try locking the door."
Carefully, lovingly, Tate turned back to Violet. As gently as he could he striped her wet clothing off, doing his best to ignore the darkness demanding he perform lustful acts upon her unknowing body, and tossed the wet and bloody things aside. With a light touch he rubbed her down the with towel he had thrown over his shoulder, drying her pale skin, before finding some of her old clothes and redressed her as best he can. Tate didn't know much about fashion, when he was living his idea of a clothing god was Kurt Cobain, but he thought he had seen her in something like this before. It was at least her normal tights/floral print dress/ long sleeved under shirt/cardigan combo. But in the end he doesn't really care about what he dressed her in. She still hasn't awoken, and Tate can feel the worry he'd been suppressing starting to press in on his mind. Why hadn't her spirit returned to him yet? Could she… could she really be dead. Like, dead dead, not this bullshit version they all lived each day. Had Violet found a way out of Murder House? No, if she had, she would have told him. Tate refused to believe she would leave him like that. No matter how much she hated him, she loved him too. Violet wouldn't just leave him like that.
Tate placed the dressed Violet on her bed, her head on the pillow as if she was sleeping. She actually did look like she had just dozed off, except of course for the fucked up way she wasn't breathing. Tate began pacing her room, chewing on his fingernail as he tried to keep some semblance of calm. But something was wrong.
"Fuck, Vi! Wake up!" Tate muttered, keeping his eye on her as he paced. "Don't do this. You can't. Your mom needs you here. Ben and Thaddeus need you, even if you hate the little fucker. You need to be around to keep him good. Like you did with me." Tate sighed, his voice rising as the panic and the darkness met and swirled around in his mind. "Fuck, I need you! I still want to do bad things, and I need to you to keep me from doing them! You know I changed for you! All of this was for you! Without you I don't know how to keep the darkness out. I can't fight it without my light. I love you. Please, please don't go! Hate me forever, just don't leave me!" Tears were once again falling down Tate's face and sobs chocked out his words. He collapsed on the floor next to her bed, unable to keep himself up anymore. He couldn't save her. Once again it looked like he would be there too late to save the one thing he loved. Damn this house, damn his evil ways, damn it all. This was his Violet, their unconventional love was the stuff of legends. She couldn't leave him. Not like this, not before they had made up. "Violet!"
A hand pressed down on the top of Tate's head, fingers twisted with his golden locks. At first he didn't know if it was real, but he looked up anyway, trying to wipe the tears from his eyes. Violet's face looked over the side of the bed, her hand now resting on his cheek, and she was smiling. Fuck, she was actually smiling at him again.
"Don't worry, Tate. I'll always be here to keep you good. I'll always be your light."
