A/N: I do not own any of these characters; they belong to their respected writers. I am merely a dreamer with too much time on their hands and a wide vocabulary. Note: Tate Langdon is more than a school shooter in this piece of fiction, he is also a serial killer. Hence why we're thrust into an AU. Enjoy.

WARNING: This chapter contains mention and scenes of rape. Please procede with caution.

Chapter 7 – Fragility

"Today I will be beautiful," she whispered, as she ran her hands over the net stockings that covered the smooth skin of her legs. She let her nimble fingers run themselves over the crease of her uniform, the cotton fabric giving her skin air to breathe and settling nicely on the curves of her body. She smiled as she approached the mirror in one of the guest bedrooms, gently patting the bright red curls that sat on top of her head.

Moira O'Hara was stunning. From her porcelain skin, her thick red hair, her brilliant blue eyes, to the pink lips that curled themselves up in a smirk when her mind began to fill with thoughts that would make a priest sweat. Today she was twenty-six, light as a feather and hungry for love. Her body craved the touch of another, but the bruises that pressed themselves into her skin told the story of a touch that belonged to the hands of a sinner.

At first she believed that it was an act of rage. She understood the pain that resided in his body, and she forgave him for lashing out at her, for forcing her down and taking advantage of her. In fact, she was almost glad that it had happened. She had often wondered what he hid underneath the thick sweaters and torn jeans, and even though it was under horrid circumstances, her curiosity was fulfilled. The first time it happened, he apologized. He broke down into tears and told her that he was sorry for his actions, that he was just so angry and sad and lonely and that he took it out on her. Her heart ached for the poor boy, and she kissed him on the cheek and told him that she forgave him. He had smiled at her, dimples framing his face and his brown eyes sparkling, and she felt her breath hitch in her throat.

Days passed until the next attack. She was in the bathroom hunched over the bathtub, pushing back curls from her face when she felt a tug on the back of her collar that sent her backwards. She felt the weight of another straddle her and start tearing at her clothes, and she wiggled underneath him until she looked up to see his head of shaggy blond hair dipping itself between her legs.

"What are you doing?" she had exclaimed, but he looked up at her with those eyes that had once sparkled and now held that of anger. Fear flooded her body as he started to work on her, and she lay there on the ground, waiting for it to be over. No longer was she curious, now she was frightened. After he was done, he did not apologize or break into tears; instead he left her on the floor with blood between her legs and disappeared. She was left to clean herself up and scrub her own blood off of the floor.

Moira spent hours afterwards shaking, rubbing her arms and legs and letting the pain wash over her. She ached and she felt like she was disappearing, and that she did. She melted into the foundations of the house and waited there until she was ready to emerge. She was unsure how long it was until she actually did, but it was the sound of his voice calling out her name that made her do so. Moira didn't know why, but she felt obliged to, like it was her job.

"Listen, Moira," he said, approaching her cautiously. She stood stock still, daring not to move an inch. He smiled at her sweetly, like he did after the first time. "What happened before…I just got carried away. There's been so much stuff going on with me and I've been so angry. I took it out on you and I didn't mean it. I just wanted to say I was sorry. Can you forgive me?"

Moira eyed the young boy up and down, watching the waves radiate off of him as he stood in front of her. He was lying; he wasn't sorry, not even a little bit. But she bit her bottom lip and nodded her head, and with that he wrapped his arms around her middle and pulled her close to him. She gasped and he took that as an invitation to press his lips against hers and slip his tongue into her mouth.

"Mmm," he whispered, as he broke away from her. "You taste so good, Moira." He did it again, letting his lips explore her collarbone and his hands work their way towards the back of her dress, running over the curves of her bum. She shivered at his touch, and she felt her body go ice cold.

No, she wanted to say, but she couldn't. She felt bound and frozen as he began to touch her, gently at first and then gradually growing with more force. He had pushed her up against the wall, running his hand up her thigh and feeling for her panties, running his fingers against the slit with his eyes boring into hers.

"You're not even wet," he frowned, his eyebrows furrowing. Instantly he jammed his fingers into her and she yelped in pain, his lips curling into a smile as his tongue slid against them. "Better," he whispered, and he crushed his mouth against hers as he undid the belt on the waist of his jeans. Moira shut her eyes, squeezing them shut as tightly as she could, little bursts of color forming behind her eyelids. Her brain went fuzzy as he plunged himself into her, as he grunted into her ear, felt his hot breath on her neck.

She dared not cry, she dared not speak, she just let him thrust up into her roughly, let his hands bruise the flesh on her hips as he took her as his own. The minutes felt like hours, and when he finally let out a hefty grunt and she felt him spill himself into her, she let her eyelids flutter open and felt him lean against her, spent. Moira didn't touch him, she just let him catch his breath until he pulled out and stuffed himself back into his jeans. She buttoned up her blouse and he watched her intently as she did so. When she was done, he pressed his lips against her cheek and smiled at her.

"I could get used to this," he smirked, and he turned on his heel and left. Moira collapsed onto the floor and wept. Her body ached, her heart hurt, and she knew there was no way out of the situation she had thrown herself into. If only she hadn't let him off so easily the first time, maybe this wouldn't have happened. She wondered if she could keep herself older so he wouldn't throw himself onto her, but she realized that it was useless; he saw her as a young woman, he wanted to see her as a young woman. And because of that, she was bound in this form and vulnerable to his actions.

It became routine for Moira. The minute he whispered her name, she dropped everything and submitted to him. The bathroom, numerous bedrooms, the desk in the study, the couches, even the island in the kitchen; any surface he could pin her up against he would throw himself on her and she would close her eyes and pretend she was somewhere else. She didn't tell a soul about the abuse, afraid that the pressure of the house would collapse underneath the added turmoil and the fear that his anger would cascade into a heavy tide and he would hurt her more than he already was.

Although, the young maid realized, he wasn't always an animal. There were times when he was gentle, when he whispered sweet words into her ear. He knew the spots that made her groan the loudest and he liked to hit them as often as he could when he had her. She didn't want him, but he knew how to make her stomach turn in disgust and pleasure as he slipped inside of her and kept her wrists bound. It became something that she believed to be a burden that was brought onto her for the rest of her days.

And then she came in the house, stomping in with her heavy boots and filling the fridge with her food, parading around the house naked as if it was her very own. Moira loathed her, with her spiked hair and her pierced face. She was disgusting and a freak, and she wanted her out of her house immediately.

He was something wrong as he thrust into her with the usual force, but there was a look in his eye that noticed wasn't quite right. He wasn't focused, he wasn't settling in on the blankness of her face or the glint of sadness that sparkled in her eyes; he was thinking about something, or someone, else. He finished, regardless of his behavior, and as he rolled over on his back and Moira lifted the sheets up to cover her exposed breasts in embarrassment, he said,

"Do you think she's a good fucker?" Moira felt her body grow cold, and she turned her head towards the boy next to her. "Wh-what?" she stuttered. He looked at her, his face filled with annoyance. "The girl," he said. "The living one in the house. Do you think she's a good fucker?" Moira's eyes darted to look up at the ceiling and at the mahogany fan that sat over them. She swallowed and he sighed, getting up from the bed and gathering his clothes. She watched him.

Why did he care? Wasn't she enough? Her heart started to thump as she thought about him taking advantage of another girl, and she felt like throwing up all over the sheets. Would he do it? Could he do it? He had certainly done it before; what was standing in his way now? She scowled as she watched him dress and once he slipped into his shoes, he turned to her and gave her a half-smile.

"Until we meet again," he said, and he disappeared out of the bedroom. Moira lay there, naked underneath the thin sheets, staring up at the ceiling, his question playing over and over in her head. He wanted her, and she couldn't deny it. She was becoming too boring and he was getting sick of her; he wanted someone new, and she was the perfect replacement.

Moira didn't see him for days, and she kept her eyes on the young woman who decided to nest into her home. Moira hated the way she left her dirty dishes in the sink and waited until there were no more plates to finally wash them, how the trash bin overflowed with garbage and how she ashed out her cigarettes into the bathroom sink. She was dirty and vile and Moira couldn't understand his reasoning for being attracted to her.

She waited for him to call for her, to push her onto the bed and force himself onto her. She started to worry that he was biding his time, and that his next attack would be even more horrific. But he did not appear before her or call out of her name; she was left to do her chores and clean up after the trash that resided in the house. Moira tried to spy on her work, try and figure out what it was that she was up to, but she wasn't as sneaky as the other spirits were and left that up to the others to figure out. They would tell her in due time, and she saw Ben follow the woman up the stairs and into the study where they conducted a session behind locked doors.

I bet she wants to fuck him, she thought, furrowing her eyebrows at the closed door as she waited outside it. Finally, she pressed herself up against the wooden door and listened to the muffled voices between them. The young woman had a gruff voice, thick with a European accent that she couldn't pinpoint.

"Do you know anything about the Langdon family and their association with this house?" the woman had asked. Moira's stomach dropped and she listened to the silence as she waited for Ben to reply. What did this bitch want to know about the Langdons? Finally, she got her answer.

"Around the time that Tate Langdon shot up the school, the bodies of teenage girls that went to Westfield High School as well as the other neighboring high schools were showing up along the highway. There might be a connection to the murders and Langdon, but we're not sure. That's what I'm trying to figure out."

Moira ran from the door and locked herself in the bathroom. She vomited into the toilet, her eyes flooding with tears that dripped into her sick. No no no no no, she thought, her heart about to burst from her chest. She had no doubt in her mind that Tate Langdon was a monster; he was a liar, a murder, and a rapist. Now he was a serial killer?

She threw up in the porcelain toilet again and let her cheek rest against the seat. She could easily imagine the young man charming his way into the arms of innocent girls, buttering them up for slaughter. But Moira did not want to believe it, she tried to force herself to shoo the images out of her head of Tate letting the edge of a blade run against the cool skin of a young girl, the blood splattering onto his face.

Moira flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and splashed cold water onto her face. She sat in the bathtub and cried.

Tate was sexually abusing her. She hated him for the crimes he had committed against herself and against others. But there was a small part that screamed inside her that she cared for him. This tiny portion in her heart that yearned for his touch, his attention, and the feel of his breath against the shell of her ear.

Moira O'Hara was in love with her assailant.