Summary - Tate Langdon, an introverted English professor, meets Violet Harmon, grad student, musician, coffeehouse employee, at a dinner party. Because sometimes I just want to take them out and have some fun. I imagine this taking place on the east coast, probably in Boston.

Violet/Tate - AU - Rated M

A/N – Basically a porn w/o plot. Well, maybe there's a little bit of plot. Written up quickly on my phone and (mostly) edited. I apologize in advance for any/all errors.

Disclaimer - I do not own American Horror Story. Just this little fic is mine.


I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain. - John Keats, written in a letter to Fanny Brawne

When he sees her at the party he thinks she's a teenager, an undergrad at most, and he stares, boggles. Who brought the kid? He fucking hates these things.

She catches him looking, eyes trailing down his body and then up again, leaving a slow burn in their wake. A mean little smirk graces her full pink lips, thick black lashes fluttering over caramel orbs. She cocks her head, nibbles at the corner of her mouth. His pants grow tight, restraining, uncomfortable. Fuck, he thinks, she's like a present, all wrapped up in shiny bubblegum colored paper and a satin bow. But something in her gaze tells him whatever is inside that package is nothing that he's expecting, nothing sweet.

Leah and Gabe are always having people over. And Tate likes them, he does. They were probably the only real friends he had in high school. The only ones who had bothered to speak to him at Westfield. They had kept him sane back then, kept a shotgun out if his hands, his nightmares from becoming reality, bullets tearing through their classmates.

But the fucking dinner parties they insist he attends. Every goddamn time there is a new girl he has to meet. Someone wonderful or fabulous. Someone perfect for him. It's all bullshit. None of them are the right girl. Fuck, Tate is fairly sure at thirty-two that she doesn't exist. He's not too old, he knows that, doesn't need Leah reminding him. He just feels done with it all. Tired.

Over the years, the romantic in him, spouting poetry, lines from Keats, Byron, or Shakespeare, has wasted away, leaving an embittered realist in its wake. Dating isn't his thing; trying to make conversation, cracking jokes, sharing stories about the past, hopes for the future. Tate hates it all. Can't get away fast enough.

So instead of talking to any of the women Leah has apparently invited just for him he stands by the bar they've set up, alone, pouring himself bourbon after bourbon, and thinking that he can't possibly leave without a fuss until at least ten. Or more likely, eleven. He sighs, glances out the window into the night sky, the twinkling city skyline just beyond.

"Gin on the rocks with a splash of soda," comes a honeyed voice just behind his shoulder starling him out of his reverie, his calculations on social graces.

"Excuse me?" he asks, surprised and spinning on his heel.

It's her. Cotton candy lips, black liquid liner, the skin of her face as smooth and fresh as a baby's bottom. She's smiling, all perfect white teeth and years of orthodontia.

She repeats her order. Verbatim.

"I'm not a bartender," he huffs. Not in the mood to deal with an entitled nineteen year old and her perky tiny tits, slim waist, and creamy pale legs that go on for miles. Really, what the fuck was she wearing? Oversized black sweater, hanging off her shoulder, clearly no bra, sparkling silver skirt, cut to expose every inch of her that was considered legally decent. Black knit thigh highs held in place by thick elastic straps. More like something worn by a hockey player than a pin-up girl. Patent leather lace-up oxfords. And her hair: gorgeous, golden, curled into soft locks, the bottom four inches dyed an aubergine color. And her lip is fucking pierced. Two rings on the lower left side.

The ladder rung of old faded scars running down her right wrist, honestly, one of the first things he actually noticed about her, are as appealing, sexy, to him as every other part of her slender, willowy, frame. Maybe more so.

Tate wants to glower but he can't. He is too distracted by her youth, her beauty. And finds himself pouring her drink almost against his will.

Before handing it over he eyes her again, narrowing his gaze, using it as an excuse to study her perfection further. "Is it even legal for me to give you this?"

"You the cops?" she smiles.

His mouth twists but before he can say anything further she continues, tongue poking out in amusement. "Want to see my ID?"

Tate thinks about saying yes. It would tell him her name, her address, her birthday. And he suddenly, so desperately, wants to know all of those tiny details about her. Details that he usually finds boring, meaningless. His silence only makes her grin grow, eyes twinkling with mirth, as she plucks the glass from his hand, taking a sip.

"For someone who's not a bartender you make a pretty decent drink," she informs him, moving closer into his personal space.

He fiddles with the rim of the Hendrick's bottle, putting the cork in, taking it back out, and feeling twelve years old. Awkward and unworthy. The most popular, desired, girl in class deeming to talk to him.

"Violet," she says after another moment, sticking her hand out. Her nails are painted a red so dark it's nearly black.

"Tate," he replies.

"Oh, right," she says, drink coming to her mouth, hiding her expression momentarily. "You're the friend." He shrugs, disheartened. "Leah's always trying to set you up, right?"

He has a fucking reputation. He is a goddamn joke.

"Me too," the girl sighs, casting a narrowed, angry glance at their mutual friends.

Tate looks up, astounded. Her?

"I'm always telling her to fuck off, you know?"

He nods, takes a slug of bourbon. And lets his eyes wander from her childlike face to her tits. Wonders if they're tipped pretty and pink. Rosy little buds.

"I wonder why Leah's never thrown you at me. Seems a little unfair, don't you think?" He stares back, mouth open, unsure of what to say. You're too young for me. You're too fucking hot. I want to get inside of you and never let you go. He thinks about saying all of those things but nothing comes out. "Because I can tell you, if you'd been next to me at dinner I might not have excused myself to blow a line of coke in the bathroom." She gives him a million-watt smile and he knows she's not kidding.

"Got anymore?" he chuckles dryly, surprised at himself.

"Yeah," she tells him, already tugging at his arm, "come on!"


Tate hasn't done hard drugs since high school. Pot, sure. Ecstasy, a couple of times in college. Opium, well he is an English Literature professor. Sometimes he needs to chase the fucking dragon. It's research. But cocaine?

She has them sequestered in the small powder room before he can really wrap his mind around the situation. Violet cuts perfect lines of white powder on the back of the toilet, sat, legs splayed, on the lid.

"Are we really doing this?"

"Do you not want to?" She turns to look at him, knows Tate's answer without him saying a word. Of course he fucking wants to. He also wants to strip off her panties with his teeth and fuck her on the pedestal sink, her ass falling in the basin, his fingers digging into her hips, leaving marks, the whole party wondering where they have got to.

"You know, full disclosure. I already knew who you were, before," she nods to the door, the room beyond. "I've actually been trying to get Leah to introduce us since I saw you with her at the coffee shop where I work." Her pale cheeks redden ever so slightly. He touches his belt, readjusts, eyes unable to look away from her. He feels like a fly caught in a web. Or more likely, honey. She's going to kill him but it will be utterly worth it.

Her words though have honestly stunned him. A creature like Violet? Had wanted to meet him? How could he not recall her? There was no way he could have seen her and forgotten her.

And why the fuck had Leah not done as asked? Probably, he thought, because he had finally put his foot down a few months prior. Flatly refused another blind date. She had accepted that fact only to redouble her efforts at the dinner parties.

Violet's back is to him again when she says, "You really don't remember me, do you?" and sighs, a delicate little sound. "But I guess you wouldn't."

His eyes barely leave the curve of her ass to respond, "From Pour Richard's?" He is ashamed to admit he doesn't.

"No," she shakes her head, silken fall of hair swaying across her back. "Love in Letters: Writings of the Romantics. English 312." She's still not looking at him but he's frozen in place. "About five years ago, I think."

"I was," he clears his throat.

"My professor."

Tate shakes his head, the bourbon suddenly making him dizzy. "How fucking old are you?"

Violet swings around, pulling her hair into a sleek low ponytail. "Twenty-five. Why?"

He splutters. There is no way she is twenty-five. "But you're...you look so," he gestures.

"Young?" she smirks. "I get that a lot." With a shrug she pulls a rolled bill from that crazy suspender belt, impossibly high up her thigh, and snorts the first line. "You're not too disappointed, are you?" she rubs her nose, passes him the tube. "Cause there are some real fucking creeps out there."

"No," he leans forward, does a line up each nostril, winces. "More," he thinks, "pleasantly surprised?"

"Oh," she grins. "So, you'll still fuck me?"

Tate snorts unattractively, almost choking on his own tongue. "What?" Coke had never made him hallucinate before.

"You're pretty much the hottest prof I've ever had. I had the biggest crush on you. You never noticed," she looks down at her shoes, does her second line. "You were just so into teaching, the lessons. Keats and Byron and Shelley. You never saw me. No matter what I tried. What I wore. And that just made you even fucking hotter. God, when I saw you again," Violet practically moans, trailing off.

Tate doesn't know what to say. How to respond. Instead he steps forward, grabs hold of her arms, and drags her up. Since he can't use his mouth for coherent speech, all of that being lost to him, he puts it to better use. Pressing his lips to hers, he watches as her wide, surprised eyes drift closed in pleasure, her hands immediately finding their way to his hair, tugging and making him growl at the back of his throat.

"Wait, wait," she begins a few second later, touching his face, giggling girlishly. Violet twirls practically out of his arms though he continues to grip her elbow. Her little fingers swipe across the porcelain and come up white, coated in powder. She rubs the first along her upper gums, her teeth. Offers the second two to him with a wink. Bites her lip, groans, when he accepts.

"Mmm, where," her eyes, pupils blown wide, flit across the small space of the room.

He doesn't think, doesn't need to. Tate just puts his hands on her waist, so narrow, her flesh like a flame even through her shirt, and swings her up onto the edge of the sink. His mouth is on hers immediately, her tongue darting forward to taste his lips. With a groan he opens to her. Something deep-seated, animalistic, dormant for so many years, flares to life inside of him.

Violet paws at his sweater, scratching down his front to the hem. Tate thinks she is going to grab it, tug up and over his head. But with a needy little sigh, her fingers quest lower. Tickling the skin just above his waistband, her knuckles drag down over his cock, grazing it. Tate's hips rock forward. He steps further into the cradle of her thighs, hands sliding up from her knees until he feels flesh under his palms. Smooth and soft, he tucks his index finger under a wide black elastic strap and snaps.

First it's his belt, unbuckled and left hanging open, then the button on his jeans, his zipper jerked down tooth by tooth. Her tongue in his mouth.

His nimble digits flick forward, graze warm wet cotton, and rub. Violet pulls back to study him with liquid eyes, the rich caramel color of them hypnotizing, tilts her pelvis to give him better access, a better angle.

Tate's boxers, pants, are shoved down and he finds himself hard and hot, cock weeping, in her small hand, grip lax, as she continues to stare into his dark eyes, like she's trying to memorize his face, Tate himself, the moment, all of it. Then her mouth is on his once more, teeth nipping his lip. Her hips buck. Violet shudders when he touches her mound.

"Need you," she breathes. Tate can't think of a more beautiful phrase, poetic coupling of words, that he has ever heard, read.

All he can think about is his flesh pounding into hers. The heat of her body making him sweat. But she still has her panties on and the suspender belt is in the way. Tate doesn't want to just tug them aside and fuck her, cotton stroking his dick, absorbing her pussy juice. He needs that wetness, the slap, slap, slap, as he thrusts. So with a moment's pause, his lower lip tucked between his teeth, Tate wrenches the scrap of fabric away from her, renders it in two, tugs the moist fragrant material out from under her, balls it up in his hand, tucks it away for safe keeping. Violet doesn't say a word, just pants, legs open, showing him a flash of skin, of lovely pink. Her bare pussy glistening as she watches him observe her with hooded eyes.

Rubbing the head of his dick through her soaked folds the pair let out twin groans. He nudges the bulbous tip past her entrance. Tate pauses briefly, willing himself not to cum from the sheer ecstasy of being inside her, breathing deeply, and praying that he doesn't make a fucking fool of himself. Violet lifts her hips just as he shifts, sinking deeper. "Fuck," he mumbles, seated fully, cock enveloped to the root.

She squirms, urging him on, knees knocking into his waist, arms around his neck. Tate finds a rhythm. In, out, faster, slower, faster, building the tension within their bodies. The more he works her, the wetter Violet gets, the more she kisses him, writhes, and gasps into his mouth. When he hits that spot, the one that makes her cry out against his neck, tongue lapping at the join with his shoulder, she spasms, jerks, mouth wet and open, a stuttering breath caught in her throat.

Looking at her, that face, while feeling her tight cunt encasing him, his hips nestled between her thighs, enfolded by the heat of her body, is almost too much to bear. Tate lowers his head, seeking escape from sensation, wanting to make her cum, and knowing that he is so very close to losing control.

"Harder," she whispers desperately in his ear. "Fuck me harder, Professor Langdon." And he wishes that her words weren't such a fucking turn on. Knowing that he was fucking a student. So young and fresh, begging him for it.

Tate lets go, like a man possessed, unable, unwilling, to stop his hips from snapping, roughly almost viciously, into her warm wet hole.

Violet's foot, shoe hanging half off, clears the radiator beside them. Bottles, a vase of flowers, a dish of decorative soaps, all go crashing to the floor. Her other leg is bent double, knee practically knocking her temple, held by Tate as he pounds into her. His other hand is on the small of her back, trying to stem the tide as she inches further into the white porcelain bowl, nearer the faucet.

"Oh god," she moans, a muffled sound against his ear, in his hair. He's leaning his forehead onto her bare shoulder, gasping as she keens.

Reaching out, attempting to brace herself against Tate's brutal thrusts, Violet grabs hold of the towel bar. It pulls away in her hand a moment later and she slips deeper into the sink, squawking. The man between her thighs doesn't pause, only fucks her harder.

"Oh, shit, shit," she whines, "right there. Oh, please, please, please. Yes, god," she trails off, mouth falling slack.

Violet's cunt clamps around his dick like a vice. All velvet heat, milking him. As her nails scrabble, claw, at the back of his neck leaving red welts and thin lines of blood in their wake.

When he cums, endless seconds later, strangled gasp on his lips, her boneless in his arms, it's like a goddamn fire hose going off. He fills her up, full of his jizz, pulls out, and still manages to soak her bare pussy. He's fascinated by the excess of wet mess coating her, oozing out of that little pink hole, and decides it must be the coke.

"Fuck," she murmurs, head thrown back as he pants, slumping forward again. His palm glides from her bare thigh, under her sweater, to cup one small breast. Her nipple pebbles under his thumb. "I don't usually, you know, screw guys at parties like this," Violet tells him. Tate's eyes lift to hers. She doesn't look ashamed or sorry. The emotions he feared finding there. Instead she is grinning, staring at him like the cat that got the canary. Her lids slide down, fingers finding their way back into his hair. "Usually I at least need to know a guy's favorite band before I let him inside me."

He stares, enthralled by her and already half in love. Realizing, "I don't even know your last name."

She snorts, her thumb slipping from his tangled locks, down his cheek, to his lower lip. "You're so fucking cute. You know that?" Tate ducks his head. Embarrassed and feeling silly, too old and impossibly too young all at the same time. A beat later she tells him, "It's Harmon. Violet Harmon."

Tate thinks Violet Langdon sounds better. Suits her more.

He opts to keep that thought to himself. At least for awhile.

Her chest is rising raggedly but she manages to sit up, balancing her ass on the very edge of the sink. "You tore my underwear off," Violet remarks, remembering.

Tate smirks, feels the weight of the fabric in his back pocket.

"Fuck," she huffs. "I'm going to be leaking all over the fucking place." She looks down, he follows suit. "You're already dripping down my leg." A line of milky white dribbles onto the lip of the sink. Tate imagines licking her pussy, coating his mouth with her, with him. Cleaning her with his tongue.

He finds himself oddly proud. Insanely proud. Feels like a man.

He wants to fuck her again. Take her home with him and make her breakfast in the morning. Then fuck her after she's eaten. Keep her in his bed for days, watch her in his apartment wearing one of his shirts, sharing his toothbrush. He realizes, heart pounding, that he wants to keep her.

"We could just," he shrugs, "go."

"Home?"

"My place." She smiles, pink lips and white teeth, happily tossing her arms around his neck and hugging him to her like a prize. She might have even squeaked in pleasure before she kissed him but Tate was far too distracted. "And my favorite band," he tells her, "is Nirvana."

"I knew it," she grins against his mouth. "That's so hot."


Outside of their bubble, built with cocaine and sex, and the thin walls of an old house, there is the occasional noise, the sound of things breaking, falling, crashing. And there are groans, stifled giggles. But as the guests glance to their evening's hosts neither he nor she so much as bat an eye. So the others follow suit, ignoring whatever is going on in the powder room. Though a few people swear they saw Tate Langdon, the English professor, nice enough guy, quiet, intense, lonely, obsessive, go in there with Violet Harmon, the moody, angry, drunk, grad student, musician, Leah knows from the coffee shop. It figures those two would hit it off.

"It's about time," Leah tells her husband, arms crossed over her chest, a smug smile on her face.

"I just hope they don't wreck the fucking bathroom," Gabe replies, grinning.

"For those two?" His wife's elegant brows raise, "I'd have a whole new one put in."

He stares at her before narrowing his gaze. "Ha! So, that's why you finally agreed to introduce them! You knew that was how you could win the bathroom remodel debate! Leah," Gabe shakes his head, "you are diabolical."

"And you love me anyway," she tells him. He shrugs. "Also, there was no way I could have known that they would end up in there. Tainting it. With their sex-capade." Leah smirks wickedly as her husband cringes at the visual. Adding, "And apparently breaking everything we own."

"Really?"

"Really," she smirks.

"You didn't say, happen to suggest, just off hand, to Violet, that the powder room down here was just the perfect place for a tryst at a party?" Leah opens her mouth to offer a denial but he cuts in, "Or something to that effect?"

For one fleeting second guilt flashes across his wife's face and then it is gone.

"I knew it!" Gabe announces, momentarily triumphant. "She just can't resist a challenge."

Leah changes tactics. "But Babe, would you deny one of our oldest, dearest friends happiness?"

Gabe rolls his eyes. "His happiness is apparently costing me five grand."

"Eight."

"Fucking Christ, Leah!"

"You can't put a price on quality. Just ask Tate. I bet he'd tell you the same thing."


He would have. If he had been available. As it was, it was nearly an hour after going in before the pair emerged from the bathroom and beat a hasty retreat to catch a cab back to Tate's loft.

The driver told them to, "Knock it off. No sex in my cab," three times before they made it there.

Violet didn't get a chance to say good bye or thank you to her friend but figured the other woman wouldn't mind. She was quite certain that Leah had finally gotten what she wanted. And Violet certainly couldn't argue. Not when she had Professor Langdon, Tate, pressed against her, his chest molded to her back, mouth on her neck, warm puffs of air fanning her naked flesh, his messy hair brushing her cheek.

Their friends had never thrown a more successful dinner party.