Part twoooo. Again, there's still only two episodes, so I apologize if things still seem a little weird. The grammar is off and little in this one, but I think it adds a little bit to how it's following what's going on in Violet's head.
I don't own American Horror Story, but I have started a piggy bank to help collect money so I can buy Tate.
She knows he's watching her sleep, but she doesn't say anything – doesn't move. It's not long before she's lying still, pondering how he got into the house anyway. Part of her wants to scream for him to get out; after all, she's a virgin, so it's weird having a boy in her room at night. The other half of her? It takes command. She lies motionless, waiting to see what he'll do.
It's quiet for an eternity – hypothetically, of course. He simply stands at the foot of her bed for what seems like hours. And as strange as it seems to say, it pisses her off. She wants him to come to her bedside – lay with her, stroke her hair, and … ugh.
She stops herself.
Violet, he's crazy.
So she had listened in on a few of her father's appointments, big deal. She never expected to even think twice about someone as psychotic … as insane … as amazing –
The floor starts to creek beside her, and it's not long before she feels a hot breath on the base of her neck. It sends shivers down her spine, and for a moment, she debates screaming – running away from this damned house, for Christ's sake.
What if it's evil? What if it's not Tate standing there, serenely watching over her from the foot of her bed? It could be a fucking rapist for all she knows. She never did look.
She was too afraid he'd see her move.
Her fears are hushed, though, as she feels the pressure of a hand on her shoulder, a thumb softly stroking back and forth. She's frozen for an instance as she enjoys the touch – the care.
She knows it's him. It's his hand … the one she had felt that time in her room. It was strong and rough, but held her own with such understanding and affection.
As her shoulder is stroked, she starts to feel the strap of her tank top begin to slide down her arm. His hand stops instantly, his gentle touch replaced with a hesitant grip.
She decides to take a risk.
Her own hand reaches up from beneath the covers, pulling her tank top even lower before grabbing what she can of his arm. She strokes it softly, and his cautious hold once again turns sweet and soft.
"I knew you were awake," she hears him say in a tone she can't read.
"I knew it was you," she whispers, her hand sliding down to touch his. "You're not supposed to be in here."
"Hell to that," he mutters, and she smirks.
She feels his body weight shift onto the bed, and she knows he's sitting beside her.
"Violet?" he asks.
"Yeah?"
"If you're going to pull down your shirt, you should make sure the door is locked."
She smiles. "I'm not afraid of anything."