Author: grayglube

Title: Moral Dust

Summary: People want to be scared, she knew. Wanted to be safe and scared at the same time, want, need. Fear with that all too squirm-worthy sexual edge to it, helplessness, but choosing it, wanting, needing, choosing to fear.

Rating: M

Warning(s)/Kinks: Language, masturbation, dirty talk

Spoilers: None, references to Episode 2: "Home Invasion"

Disclaimer: I don't own American Horror Story.

A/N: Is there anything cooler than shipping Tate and Violet under 'Violate' I mean really how fun is that name combination? Takes place after "Home Invasion." And let's just say that when Violet came out of the basement and Vivien was coming down the stairs that she saw the blood on the walls too, or was told about it, just for argument's sake.

There was something in her that reveled in the idea of him, of him being so seemingly interested in her. It was strange and it went beyond the giddy thrill of a boy liking her, which was juvenile, but still she was a teenage girl. It held the unspoken confirmation that she was at least attractive and with that knowledge she could at least get rid of one nagging question that every teenage girl wanted the answer to.

That thought alone made her want to choke herself with the pull ties of her hooded jacket, but she was still a teenage girl who had only the assurances of those with a vested interest in her and had to tell her she was attractive because her mother had that matronly outlook on teenage girls and that they all at least had some feature that made them attractive and that every girl deserved a boy to like her for it, regardless of if they looked like they had at some point taken a blow to the face with a tire iron and her father had the outlook of all dads, the oblivious but still purposeful non-recognition that at some point his teenage daughter would grow up and want to have sex with someone and then the few friends she had weren't really objective on the whole matter since if they came out and said she was in fact a hideous beast that smelled like she might never again pay for movie tickets or the excursion out to some cheap little diner because there was nothing better to do on a Friday night.

And she added the 'seemingly' caveat to his interest because it was possible, though maybe not probable, that he was just a psychotic prick that enjoyed seeing people squirm in all manner of ways without the fact that he was a teenage boy having anything to do with his interest. She hated to think that he made her squirm but he did and she'd admit it to herself but not out loud because she may be a teenage girl but she had her pride.

It should bother her more, she knew, but it didn't. That he was most definitely psychotic, loony tunes, and all around fucking nuts, cracked, dangerous and that he seemed to like her. And it occurred to her that maybe it didn't bother her because maybe she was psychotic, maybe. Possible and probable.

It wasn't as disconcerting to admit that as she thought it would be.

So maybe there was some twisted kinship there but, then again, she didn't feel psychotic, or over the national average of general now and again seething rage and volatility, she was a teenage girl after all and she had it in her to be perfectly fucking nuts when the occasion called for it.

He. Made. Her. Squirm.

She hated squirming.

She hated that he didn't feel the need to address the unease she felt for him mixed with equal measure of that weirdly influenced kinship but not quite.

Camaraderie. That was the word she hadn't been able to find earlier. That was better. They related to each other in some deep ingrained way just as easily as the superficial bullshit ones beget by attraction.

But he wasn't like her. There was something supremely screwed up and unnatural about him. Or maybe natural, not human natural. Animal natural.

Yeah, she decided blowing out a drag. He was animal natural.

And magnetic.

Behind the unassuming first glance he was fucked up, he lacked the filter most people had so bulletproof intact that she still kept, close and comfortable and only just cracked the tiniest of bits because she just couldn't say everything she thought, someone might really try to beat the shit out of her then. The kind of beat the shit out of that involved baseball bats and cars and dying in a bloody beaten floppy limbed heap in a ditch somewhere.

But it was there. He knew he wasn't crazy. And he knew that others thought he was crazy. He let them think he was crazy. He let them because it made him something else entirely, misleading everyone off of what he really was. The something he was eluded her but she recognized it as something foreign, alien strange. Devoid of morals or complicated motives and existing to make people squirm because that was what amused him.

And didn't that sting she considered wryly, that maybe he was trying to amuse himself. That maybe it had nothing to do with her and all about him, selfish and self serving.

Their first meeting between razor blades and bad bathroom fluorescents had been about him trying to make her squirm, and it hadn't worked, not then, there was only confusion for her, and then later for him when she told him to come upstairs to her room and they talked shit and listened to music, confusion he didn't think she'd noticed.

And there was wariness but not so much that it came before curiosity.

She was a teenage girl but she could be perceptive, and if she had to pick a moment when things changed, when maybe he first looked at her and something other than an end goal of amusement crossed his thoughts that was when it happened. That she had to give to her pride, that streak of meanness mixed with curiosity to prove that she wasn't just some angst-ridden attention whoring brat. To prove he wasn't the only kind of special fucked up there was in the world, that she wasn't as damn textbook as she looked.

It was there after that he made her squirm. Different from the way everyone else did. Special attention? She pondered with an inhale on her cigarette's filter. But there was that teenage girl 'am I pretty' version of questioning doubt that said, no, not special attention just the nut-bag trying to crawl inside your head and skull fuck your brain.

The rearing up of swelled pissed off pride kept in check too long came quick enough to distract her from the smoke she just inhaled and made her cough with the viscous clawing assertion that he should be interested in her. She was prime.

She felt accomplished in the idea of him being interested by her, and with the knowledge that the thought to follow was likely to make her shift on the cold stoop, and squirm even without him around actively trying for it, she consciously put steel into her limbs and made herself a statue staring out at the dark the porch light didn't illuminate, she admitted that the idea of him wanting her was something she desperately wanted to think more about.

And it wasn't as if she didn't already but the night had brought more than enough fuel to dump on an already blazing funeral pyre of propriety and cookie cutter and glitter young adult literature teenage girl fantasies. With a mental snort she wondered when the last time she'd had one of those was, but kept the metaphor intact because it was a good one.

He wasn't the type of boy girls had those types of thoughts about. The giddy, butterfly stomach, handholding, courtly fantasies about. Well, maybe, she decided. Somewhere, someone might or could think of him that way but he wasn't the type for those types of aspirational daydreams.

It didn't mesh.

No, she didn't want him to hold her hand or show up with flowers, at least not in and of itself, not unless it was twisted into something so unlike what it was on the surface. There it was. The very idea of what it was that made her palms uncomfortably hot and humid and her posture curl in, he was twisted, not what was on the surface at all.

It was there, sometimes. Bobbing up, curling like blue smoke against sodium yellow lamp light or blood in water, that animal natural. That stalking loping glide he walked, the curl of fingers over her mouth and the arm like a metal girder under her small breasts tugging her into the dark behind the kitchen threshold, the look that was all hooded eyes and a lazy slow taking in of a room or a person like prey had stumbled into his hunting grounds. He was a predator and he made her squirm in the slow burn of it all. Not in a decisive way meant to completely debilitate her but meant to lure, captivate, entice.

Like he wanted her to put her throat in his jaws, her choice to have him snap her fragile neck with a twist of teeth and claws like a wild jungle cat, all sleek and stealth and shadows.

That was the risk.

Or maybe he wanted her to play those odds with the hope that all he'd do would be to purr and lick her and let her trot along at his side.

That was the reward.


She didn't know if she did, she could, but she didn't know if she wanted to, she might, but she didn't know if she cared, one way or the other she decided she didn't.

It was fun.

A rush a thrill a high, so fucking good. The big bad king of the jungle wanted to play with her, and sure she didn't know if he wanted to eat her for dinner or sequester her away like treasure, want was want and she was impressed with herself, impressed that she had it in her to be like that, because why else would he bother if she wasn't at least sharing some of those parts of him, that cracked obligatory moral filter that she was getting sick of, that was begging to get shattered and spray out everywhere in a million zillion shiny sparkling bits of moral dust, blown away and gone.

Blown away and gone and leaving her with the same entrance out in the wild he had.

It scared her, wanting to prey and not knowing if maybe she liked being it more than becoming what went after it.

She wouldn't ask him why. She didn't care. And he wouldn't really tell her. He could lie and she could choose not to believe him so it was better to not even ask. But he had shown up, and if he hadn't she might be dead in the bathtub, that mattered. The reason didn't. She could live with that.

You had to like someone in order to save them. You had to like someone to leave the person trying to hurt them to smear that much blood on the walls.

He'd fucked someone up. Good.

Because of her.

That said something.

That made her squirm.

People wanted to be scared, she knew. Wanted to be safe and scared at the same time, want, need. Fear with that all too squirm-worthy sexual edge to it, helplessness, but choosing it, wanting, needing, choosing to fear. Letting it curl so deep inside that you shook and forgot that you were just trying helpless on for a little while and that it didn't really have to mean you were.

She liked that.

It was a tiny revelation that she'd still like it if it turned out to be true, if she really was just small and helpless and that was what made him keep showing up.

The more she likened herself to metaphorical prey the more the sense with the sentiment unraveled because slowly it came to her that part of being prey is being oblivious and she wasn't exactly oblivious, far too close to the other side of that unbalanced scale.

He scared her and in some primal, depraved way she enjoyed it.


She turned and took in the dark shape in the threshold of the bright kitchen doorway, "Yeah?"

"Come inside soon, okay?"

Her mother eyed her cigarette but didn't comment.


Her mother nodded and Violet turned her face away to stare out into the dark backyard and waving sheets on the line.

She pressed smoke out from pursed lips and wondered if he was out in the dark somewhere, watching, waiting, lurking. She took one last drag and let it linger in her lungs, clenched it in her chest and waited until it hurt before blowing it out through her nostrils in twin streams of rushing, curling smoke.

"Thanks," she hissed tossing her dying cigarette down the steps and crushing it out in a spray of orange with her sneaker.

It wasn't that she was expecting an answer but she waited, trying to make it obvious that she wasn't in fact waiting for an answer. She stood up slowly, stretched, looked out into the dark and turned, considering the kitchen through the glass door and the police milling and passing the entrance to the living room at odd intervals.

Her heart slammed against her diaphragm and she shiver-jumped.

"You're welcome."

He lounged on the brick ledge, his head tilted and his eyes raking over her, slow but with purpose. His hair rasped over the brick when he leaned his head back against the support pillar of the porch and rested his elbow on his bent knee.

"I don't say that a lot."

"Like I'd let some crazy bitch kill you."

It sounded like a confession.

"I'm sorry."

It was an apology.

"If you keep talking while looking inside they'll know you're talking to someone."

She turned and leaned against the glass.

"I'm sorry. I don't like when people lie to me."

His shirt was dark and if there was blood on it she wouldn't have been able to tell anyway.

"I haven't lied to you, Violet."

She scowled and rolled her eyes.

"I don't like when people pretend not to know things either."

He swung his other leg down and the light from the kitchen window hit the angles of his face and the sockets of his eyes drastically.

"You should go inside, you're mother's worried."

She nodded and sighed letting her chin fall to her chest and her hair fall around her face.


Turning like she had just punched him in the face and not wanting to get hit back she pulled down the handle of the door in hopes to make a quick getaway, she threw herself inside feeling embarrassed and not wanting to be left with him being the one to leave first.

She made it a point not to go to kitchen window and see if he was still there or to look over her shoulder and to see if he was standing outside the back door.

It occurred to her belatedly that there was something supremely screwed up with her parents. Her mother at pilates and her father running around to wherever to do whatever with whoever however only a scant forty-eight hours after the whole would-be murderer crazies had decided to have her play dress up and smear magically disappearing blood on the walls before vanishing.

Not that she was complaining, not that she hadn't told them to go but really what parent actually actual did? She pondered the ceiling and breathed deep fixating on the idea that the house was too. Freaky. She kicked a textbook off her bed and another and then the notebooks, she hated trig, she hated the required reading for English.

Really, how fucking mediocre was Catching in the Rye when dissected by retards? How fucking dumb were triangles and sine and cosine over tangent squared? Really who gave a shit? Pfft. Ridiculous.

She hadn't blown it off but she hadn't done the assignments without a grumble and a few exasperated sighs, they were warranted. Holden Caufield with his grey hair at nineteen, like coke queen numb nippled scarface. She smirked and rolled her eyes.

"What is up with you?"

The ceiling didn't crack open and glean a response to her with a plastery haunted house mouth. It was the perfect opening for ceiling sarcasm. Because it was the ceiling so it was up, with itself. Lame.

"What happened to the ghost mojo? Fresh out?"

She closed her eyes.

"The house is haunted, mom's preggo, dad's into grannies, and I'm talking to the ceiling."

She was bored.

"If you suddenly crack open eyeballs I'm getting the gas can and burning you the fuck down, we have home insurance and we'd be able to move."

The ceiling said nothing.

"Glad we understand each other."

She tapped through song selections while plugging in her speakers, it was hard not to be picky, nothing slow, nothing with a chick singing, nothing with a weird synth beat under the bass, nothing that repeated the same lyrics, nothing too instrumental, nothing too angst ridden, nothing without innuendo, picky picky.

Pressing pause she slid onto the bed and undid the drawstring on her pants, hanging low on her hips and pressed her shoulders into the mattress, yanking her shirt up and off and dropping it over the edge.

The reflection in the glass on her television stand cabinets was long and slight, her ribs raised up as she lay flat and tapped her fingers down them, to the waist her mother used to have before she'd had a kid, tiny, she liked it. Her chest was tiny too but she didn't mind, she liked it.

She reached for her cigarettes and the coffee cup devoid of all contents except dregs and soggy filter butts. With a flick of the wheel of the bic she constructed a perfectly debauched fantasy scenario, impossible and impractical but remarkably fast to get a rise out of her.

If she was a boy and had a penis the sentiment would be a good pun.

She slipped a hand down her stomach and touched underneath the elastic of the utilitarian white cotton, the pads of her fingers running along the start of curls, the feel was nice, not sexual, not yet, just comforting, while she thought and rubbed her thumb along the skin and muscle below her belly button.

Her knuckles rasped across the protrusion of hard hip bone.

The red varnish on her toes looked black in the reflection of her feet to her side. Her mother had thought it was funny to do them when she'd fallen asleep on the couch after the cops left. She'd told her she'd hated it and was going to pick it off. She found them appealing after staring at them afterwards and painted on another coat. Not that anyone would know but her.

She was a teenage girl, teenage girls were supposed to like nail polish and pedicures. An image of her toes pressed into the back of someone's calf made a hot wash of arousal wave over her. Arching her foot she tried to reenact the mental image in the reflection, tried to feel the way it would look.

Finishing her cigarette she stretched and pressed the barest tip of her fingers into the soft mound of herself, rubbed at the slimy start of wetness seeping through the cotton of her underwear.

The feel brought her back to anatomy and physiology in health class and how the inside of a person body was lined with mucous membranes, osmosis and diffusion causing fluid to seep out of organs and tissues, and everything when splayed open was still a wet, pulsing, living thing, dying.

The concept was deviant sexual and it didn't help that she'd seen a movie once where a mad scientist literally tore open his female monster creation and engaged in coitus with her ripped open abdomen and viscera. She thought medical examiners ought to be screened for that sort of thing in real life, or anyone that cut open dead bodies for that matter.

Her pulse jumped and throbbed and she listed the pulse points of the body that she could remember unbidden and the flow of blood through the human heart, pulses and blood and the image of blood smeared down the hallway came unwanted into her mind and made her flatter.

Shaking it away she remembered the warm, humid, pulse of his hand over her mouth. A callus against her cheek, fingers pressing in, hard, violent and the thumb under her chin in the soft spot under her jaw, where the underside of her tongue pressed down into.

Things that hadn't happened, his fingers on her lip dragging it wider, pulling and tearing open the chapped soreness of it, his thumb in her mouth on her tongue, under it, his fingers between her teeth, long and bony and she wondered what other parts of him she'd put in her mouth.

Him in her mouth, salt and sweat and musk and cum, branding her tongue and filling up her throat and she'd swallow because why half-ass a job like that when you've already decided to put some guy in your mouth, seemed silly to spit. Rude, even. She'd swallow, choke him down hard and suck.

Make him squirm.

And if he'd spun her into the wall instead of just back against it, hard enough to hurt her chest and flatten it there, taller, stronger and she knew how he felt under those too big tee shirts and jackets and awful sweaters and the coil of his arms, unraveling sinew and hidden musculature.

Her hand had fluttered to his hip in the threshold, with a hand over her mouth and an arm under her ribs and met skin and the leather of his belt and the bony line of his hip and there was no softness to him while his chest was against her shoulders and spine, just hard lines, firm, unexpected. The baggy wardrobe hid things she desperately wanted to see.

But she thought of the hard press of cement under her breasts and the weight of him keeping her there, the stupid nurse's uniform morphed in her mind to something a little less frumpy, more flattering, and his fingers dipping in the band of those god awful panty hose and yanking, tearing, ripping them down her thighs.

A hand slipping between her chest and the wall and knuckles tearing on the rough cement and he wouldn't even hiss just leave dabs and spots and smears of blood on the wall and throw those well cut hips into the back of her pelvis and of course he'd rip open his belt, a clang and jingle of leather and metal, and he'd breath hot and humid on her ear, neck, drag his lips and tongue and teeth around and push down her underwear and kick apart her feet and press in so close, press against so close, she wouldn't be able to breathe right, just shake and gasp in air, the rasp of his hand between her legs and her chest would hurt and her ribs would bruise and she'd have to go up on her toes and claw at his hand lying against the wall, all torn knuckles and blood and purpling skin, while he'd push in and make her squirm.

It'd be vicious, she decided. Horrible, great, harsh, violent, perfect. No roses, no candles, no butterflies just cement walls and the dark and his dick.

Her spine dropped through the mattress and her stomach bottom out when in the middle of her lazy pumping in and out with small fingers the door moved and was toed open by a worn converse sneaker.

There was embarrassment and anxious nerves, she hadn't gotten caught since she was thirteen and her bed had been squeaky springs and banging metal and her mother had thought she was jumping on the bed at three in the morning, at least then she could play it off, she was just tossing and turning, couldn't sleep, there were blankets over her and she'd been on her stomach and all she got was a suspicious look and a command to go to sleep.

But there was no way to pretend she was doing anything but what she was doing, pants around her feet, knees open, hand in her underwear, fingers wet, hot and slick and sweaty and blowing out breath she'd been holding, no blankets to keep the smell of sex confined to the bed.

Of course she had to leave the door open, of course he had to creep by, of course she had to be thinking about him inappropriately, and of course he had to stare like she was some new discovery, like road-kill, morbid fascination, curiosity, smugness.

"You're doing it wrong. You're supposed to lock your door." She flung herself forward to the foot of the bed and yanked the sheet out from between the mattress the bed frame, it stuck and she ripped the fitted sheet frantically up between her legs and over her chest and hissed at him, "Get out."

"Guess you don't listen to advice often. You lock it when you go to sleep but not now, strange."

"Get out!" She flung a pillow that only flew to his feet. He looked down and kicked at it lazily. Of course she locked her door when she was asleep, she should, she was sleeping, unaware, dead to the world for a few hours, vulnerable. He knew she locked her door at night. She didn't want to know how, didn't need to. She was scared of the idea more than any answer he could give her. An answer might assuage her and she didn't want to be assuaged, she wanted to not know how he knew.

"I want to watch."

Her heart seized in her chest. Dangerous. She was going to have a panic attack, a heart attack, a stroke, right then, right there, "No."

"You're door was open," he spoke as if it was justification.

"I thought I was alone."

"You always leave the door open when you touch yourself when you think no one is around?"


"Do you?"

"What do you want?"

"You to answer my question."

"No, I don't."

"You're hand will cramp if you do it like that, you know."


"If you leave your underwear on while you do it."

"I don't need any advice on how to get off, leave."

"I mean if you're going to leave most of your clothes on you could just rub yourself, if you're actually using your fingers then you might as well take them all off and enjoy doing it. Cuming is supposed to be fun."

"I know. What do you want?"

"I already told you," and he took a step.

"Why do you keep showing up?"

"Because I want to see you," and he's taken enough steps to end up at the foot of her bed contemplative and complacent looking.

"Well I'm busy," she's glad he chuckles and looks down because it's hard to hold his stare but she can't stop the brush of heat in her cheeks from burning up when he looks up under his fringe and smirks, "Not anymore."

There's a pointed look at the sheets bundled and rucked up between her thighs and then he's sitting down, perched carefully, cautious because he knows she's skittish and if the denim of his jeans brushing the naked side of her leg she may snap, "Well I don't want to see you right now."

He leans in and she leans out, her hand coming down hard on the stereo remote and the song plays, momentarily, she forgot about music, she does that sometimes, picks out a song to get off to and then just lets it go unused, but it's playing now and she scrambles for the button to turn it off because it's really all she needs for a husky voice to start groaning out a scenario set to strums and drums to suck out all the air in the room.

"What do you think about?"


And it's a breathy whine, gasp, rattle in her chest that makes her shiver with embarrassment because he's so close she has to look down at the sheets and even then she can see the bare skin of his knee peeking through the ragged denim gap and the wave of his black tee shirt against the plum of her sheets, like a bruise she wants to press into.

"When you fuck yourself, what do you think about?"

The song is still playing and she's being sucked into a vacuum of lack of focus on any one thing, sensory overload and it's all she can do no to rock forward into his loose limbed lean towards her, the cage he's lowering over her with his body, like an embrace she can't dodge because all she's done is stand still so it doesn't crash down.

"Dead cats, what the hell do you think I think about?" It's a mumble and she still refuses to look up because if she does then she'll have to make the choice to move closer and lean in or father away and lean back, she likes her shoulder hunched and the hardness in her arms, if she leans back all he has to do is push and she'd fall back, all the way back and he'd fall in and she doesn't know if she'd have the breath left to push him off and away.

"Sex, guys, whatever. Now get out," she eyes him through a fall of hair, narrow and mean and with only half a real threat in them that he isn't going to be cowed by in any situation, especially not the one they're in now.

"Specific people or just made up people?"

Made up fantasy lovers were always so much more preferable than ones who might actually show up during the act.

"Do you think about someone fucking you?" His tone is so honest and curious it cuts her. "You know if you only use two fingers it's not really realistic, try three. You probably don't because it hurts, right?"

His eyes are blue and she's never noticed before because it's always dark and even when it's not she makes it a point not to look at them, not to look at him, she's always talking to the space over his shoulder, in front of his face, to the furniture, she can't look at him and talk, impossible, she'd lose her words, and now she's incapable of speech.

She tell herself that's the reason she lets him keep talking, why she doesn't stop him from going on, because his eyes are blue and she's never noticed and she wants to commit the color to memory.

"Because you're a virgin and you're not used to it but two isn't close to the real thing."

"…," her tongue is thick and useless in his mouth, against her teeth.

"It'll hurt when someone fucks you, the first few times. Did you know that?"

His head tilts and his hair moves from behind his ear, and he waits as if it's a question he needs the answer to because he doesn't already know, he does know.

"Because being filled up with someone's dick is different than your fingers, it'll feel hot because of all the blood in it, and if you're all filled up like that you can feel their pulse in their dick in you."

She hadn't thought about that, never had but it made sense that someone's dick would be noticeable warm, her foot shook and she tightened her hold on the sheet with her toes to stop the nervous shivers. How weird would it be to count someone's pulse based on their hard-on.

"You smell good when you're wet."

And his fingers trace the veins on the top of her foot, careful and lazy before they curl and tap against her ankle and then the snag of the loose fabric of the pooled pants being dragged off and away, across her heel and sole and the way her swift and surprised kick of the other foot has them off all together, in his hand and tossed off the bed with a flick of his wrist.


For a moment she thinks he's about to lunge closer, but all he does is sway but his eyes have already made the leap his body hasn't, it's a physical jolt in her gut, intense and wary and deliciously violent.

"And it'll hurt because you'll get nervous and you can't get wet sometimes if you're that nervous."

It wasn't a problem currently. Things she would never say, things she would never admit to.

"But I'd put my face between your legs and lick you until you cried, until you're wetter than you've ever been in your life if I was going to fuck you."

She already was.

And it was there, the offer, the opportunity to let him snap her neck or nuzzle her, risks, rewards, but she'd have to ask for it first without knowing what she'd get if she said yes instead of no. He wasn't telling what he was going to do, he was saying what he would, if he actually started doing it, if. When. Only if she asked nicely and said please.

"But you should take your time, you know. When you're alone. When no one's home you should do it slow."

The words drag across her skin. A gentle hiss like fingertips that aren't there across her hairline, her shoulders, the back of her knees, between her legs.

"You ever pump you fingers in and out until you're about to cum and then stop and put your fingers in your mouth?"




He doesn't believe her it shows on his face, he knows she sees.

"And you're a girl so you can just keep cuming, if you wanted. You could keep going until everything shakes and it hurts to cum."


"That's what I'd do to you. I jerk off to that. You crying and begging, and then I fuck you. You squeak while you finger yourself, and you hold your breath too. Is it because you're scared someone is going to hear you?"

"I just do it."

"Makes it better when you hold your breath, lack of oxygen enhances orgasm. I'll put a hand around your throat while you finger yourself if you want me to."

"I don't want that," she shook her head and put a hand to her collar bone, her fingers stretching out under her throat, an unconscious offer but not one he'd take her up on. He liked words, not insinuations, she could tell.


So what? He was in her room, sitting on her bed, she could lie if she wanted to.

"Get out."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she clawed at the bed, angry, pissed off, turned on, a complete fucking mess. He looked down at her hand and studied the shine of her wet fingers.

"Okay. But…"

And his arm is fast in the way it shoots out, springing forward like a snake and those fingers grinding against the bones in his wrist, sliding up to wrap only around her thumb and bring the inside of her arm in front of his face, and him memorizing the fee of her scars against his lips. Soft, gentle, a rasp and tug of harsh little lines across chapped dry lips.

"Ahh," and it's a breathless exhale, a clench of her vocal cords because she has no words left, bereft and drifting in the haze of disbelief as his lips part and her fingers are past them. In. His. Mouth.

And his tongue is liquid and flexing around them, his cheeks hollowing when he sucks the slightest bit and she wonders if she tastes different to him than she does to herself because she's a liar and she knows what her fingers taste like after they've been inside her.

When he's finished he's not because as soon as the two fingers leave wet strings on his lips he's repeating it with her index and it's cruel and obscene and she can't do anything but stare and blush and barely breathe.

"There. They'll slip in easy now; it might not even hurt to use three instead of two, even though you're pussy's that tight. I think about how virgin tight you are, how soft, and I'd pump you so full of cum it'd drip out down your legs."

"And I'd lick it out of you and off your thighs and then I'd fill you up again. That's what I think about, you scared and horny and not knowing what you want until I show you."

Desperate, dying, depraved. There's a thought to think about.

"I'm going to kiss you, Violet."

He did and she froze, simple, surprisingly chaste, a little damp, a mockery of a kiss and she kept her lips tight and unmoving.

"That was your first kiss."

"Get out."

She means it because he's a complete asshole in having to announce the obvious and find something that digs in deeper than having him catch her getting off.

"Take off your panties when you do it."

It's a command dressed up like suggestion but he gets off the bed and walks across the room.

"Where are you going?"

"You told me to get out."

He grins.

"Of the room."

She specifies.

"I know, I'll be in your dad's office."

"Doing what?"

"Reading his patient files."


"Change your mind?"


She hadn't. But it occurred to her that for the first time in her life sex was a very real possibility; it could happen, now, at this moment, no one home, opportunity, impulse. The answer was still no, a fantasy was a fantasy and reality was bland, personal, real.

Reality mattered.

And that's what it came down to, not now. Definitely not now. It could happen, but she didn't want it to, not now, not like this, she'd only just had her first kiss, she couldn't suddenly spring to sex just because no one was home and she was a mess of arousal and nerves and he liked her because reality wasn't fantasy and fantasy was safe, the reality wasn't.

"Oh, well."



He only turns after she's unhooked her bra and it flies into the back of his jean covered knees and he grins with a shake of his head and his laugh like bells, she smiles too, with teeth and venom, "Close the door on your way out."

"You have great tits," but he's not staring at them anymore.


"You're welcome."

The door shuts and she flops back and rubs her thighs together. She lights a cigarette and leaves it burning, placing it on the edge of table next to her bed after exhaling the first drag with deliberate slowness, she'll be finished before it burns out.

The wet brush of her underwear as she rolls them down her calf with one hand makes her throb and she drags the still warm from his mouth slickness of her fingers trailing damp deliberate lines across the inside of her thigh, it itches like a brand she wishes was from his tongue instead of her hand.

She rolls over and traps her hand between her legs, hips canting forward even before her fingers slip in, and when they do she bites her pillow and keens against the goose-down clenched between her teeth. The tease of mattress under her abdomen as she clenches it makes her press her chest further in and her hips away imagining hard sweat slick lines of someone else under her, every brush of fabric against her stomach is the stick and pull of damp skin, every wet push of fingers inside is him inside, every throb is his heartbeat, every downstroke unto the inside of her wrist is one against his pelvis.

The desperate press of lack of oxygen is from his arm braced across her throat as he thrusts and fucks her hard, fast, brutal, cruel. Like the crack and squish of bone breaking, blood spilling and slapping across white bathroom tiles like the slap of wet skin against wet skin.

And him, bloody, vicious, deadly. Liking doing it like she'd like seeing him do it. Kill someone, for her, because of her, him grabbing her after doing it, fucking her in all that mess of blood and overflowed tub, her back sliding across tiles, hair damp and the metallic scent almost overriding the one of arousal rolling over her like a haze of heat off asphalt.

She spits hair out of her mouth and sucks in a greedy sharp breath through her nose before locking it in and cracking her jaw and turning her face full into the pillow and she jerks, once, twice, done, the strong clench of her body around the stretch of three fingers.

Her hand pulls away and her body rolls over, the ceiling doesn't crack open above her. Violet breaths and lets her eyes flutter closed, chest heaving and sweat rolling down her temple and pricking her hairline, her knees knocking together and cheek pressing into the wet circle left on the pillow by her open mouth.

She licks her fingers, taps ash off her cigarette, turns off the music, and gets dressed. She goes downstairs and leans against the doorframe to her father's office.

"You came pretty quick," he observes flicking through a file and snapping it shut without looking at her.

As if the fodder he provided hadn't been explicit enough to elicit an almost self-implosive reaction in her cunt, as if the fact she'd had to put on fresh panties to keep comfortable was almost null and void since she was still plump and soaking between her thighs.

"I've been practicing for the Olympics," she twirls flimsy white cotton around her finger and attracts his attention. His eyes are icy, sharp, dangerous, staring at what she's playing with, tracking the lazy spin of the fabric.

"You thought about what I said."

She smiles, and it is not a nice smile.

"Here," she throws her panties at him, still warm and wet.

"Am I supposed to put these on? Kinky."

"You said I smell good when I wet. Keep em. They smell like me when I'm wet."

"I'll jerk off into them later."

His grip on them is tight and white knuckled for a moment before he sequesters them away in a pocket.

"I didn't cum thinking about what you said," she sounds like an impertinent child but she refrains from frowning at her own tone.

"What were you thinking about?"

"What you did to those guys that left all that blood upstairs."

"What blood?"

She tried hard not to scoff, she does not succeed. She presses back into the doorframe with her shoulders and studies him from across the room, "I saw it. Did you clean it up before we got back home?"

"You're talking crazy, Violet."

He's not fooling anyone, least of all her, despite his serious tone and serious stare and serious posture he's: full. of. shit.

"Did you kill them?"

"Did you think about me killing them horribly?"

"Yeah, I did. How fucked up is that?"

"Pretty fucked up," he agrees with a nod though there's a smile lurking there, a twitch up in the corner of his mouth and she knows somehow he's secretly pleased with the admission, confirmation that's she's more fucked up than she lets on.

But it doesn't assuage her, "So did you?"

"Do you think I could kill someone?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Does that scare you?"

"I'm not scared of anything."

"You like being scared, there's a difference."

She rolls her eyes and looks away, out the window to the street, "They'll be home soon, my dad will kill you if he sees you. You piss him off."

"He's easy to make uncomfortable, I just tell him I want to have sex with you and suddenly he's your dad instead of my doctor."

"Glad you're having fun," she deadpans.

"You know what you're scared of, Violet?"


She wants to hear him say it, she wants his diagnosis.

"Waiting so long for things that you won't like them when you get them, because you're jaded and spoiled and you wouldn't know what to do if you did like something."

"Shut the fuck up, stop acting like a shithead," there's no real anger in it but it's necessary to say something in that vein because she can't let him go around thinking he knows everything about everyone all the time.

"You're scared that you'll like something and never want to quit."

"I like being jaded makes being surprised by things better."

He sits down in her father's chair, "Do I surprise you?"

Her lips stretch into a small obnoxious grin that should be accompanied by a snort, she refrains and waves the hand with her cigarette, "Confuse, surprise, whatever. Does it matter?"


She takes a drag and reasons with the small ash spraying cylinder, "Then who cares? All I want to know is did you do something that night? Well, never mind, I know you did."

"Asking is kind of pointless then, don't you think."

"I want to hear you admit it," her teeth clench behind open lips and for a moment she feels fierce while biting into the filter of her Marlboro.

"Admit what?"

"That there is something seriously wrong with my basement," she pauses thinking of all the other things she's dying for him to cop to. "For one thing."

"It's your house, what do you think?"

"What are you my dad?"

"I am sitting in his 'confidant' chair,'" his hands pat the arms of the leather affectionately before flopping over haphazardly.

She sighs smoke and shakes her head, hair falling and shoulders shaking in a silent, mocking laugh, "He is such a child, can't believe he still calls it that. I think that you're a creep."

"Come on, you like that."

She does, he knows, no point in answering.

"What's your deal, anyway?"


He's looking at his hands against the dark brown leather of the chair, careful, considering, distracted.


"This is a nice chair. Very sturdy."

She lets out a laugh and then a snort and finally a cough when smoke chokes her, "Nice segue into insinuation," she tells him banging on her chest to get all the hacking out.

"Think your parents have ever fucked in this chair? Or your dad and his mistress?"

"It's brand new."

"Needs to be broken in."


Like she hasn't thought of that already.

"I'll mention that in my next session."

"That'd be great."

"Or I could show him your panties."

She jabs the air in front of her face with her cigarette and then lets her hand fall and her back come off the doorframe, her look is frosty and severe, "I'll choke you to death with them first." She means every fucking word.

"Promises, promises," he sing-songs and cuts off, "Your dad's home."

She's moving to the window and looking out as her father shifts into park with a tell-tale click of gears out of motion and the engine dying as he turns the car off and jerks out his keys. "Shit," she mutters before lurching in the direction of the kitchen to put her cigarette under water, waving her arms around the plume of smoke trailing through the room.


She's out of the room and turning back a second later remembering that there are more worrisome things to be caught with at the moment, her cigarette is the least of her concerns. "Tate?"

He's gone and her father's files are back where they should be. A car door slams and she shuts the paneled glass door of the room, skidding across the wood floor of the hallway to put out her cigarette.

She steps on the lever of the garbage can after dipping her cigarette in dishwater, "Like fucking Caspar," she throws the wet butt under a Sunday news circular and lets the lid drop with a sigh.

A/N: I get the feeling that Violet knows her house is haunted. The movie about the mad scientist having sex with the inside of his female creation is a real movie and it's 'Flesh for Frankenstein.' New episode tonight and I cannot wait.