Title: The Devil's Due
Summary: "Make her stop." The protest is weak. He knows, he hears, he only half hopes they listen. Gift Fic for the-noble-war, companion piece to The Devil's Double and The Devil's Advocate
Warning(s)/Kinks: Language, Sexual situations, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Faux incest, Pseudo twincest, Femmeslash
Spoilers: Nothing specific.
Disclaimer: I don't own American Horror Story.
A/N: Gift fic for the-noble-war. It's another companion piece to "The Devil's Double" by ohyellowbird or more like one to "The Devil's Advocate" by me, this one basically came from getting the prompt "Climbing up the walls" by Radiohead which I put on repeat for about eight hours and worked like a mad woman.
Also to everyone on Tumblr that pimps my stories please know I squeal like a little girl every time I see it and I very much appreciate all the love, I write stories I like to read if that makes sense, so to know you guys enjoy them as well is a wonderful bonus. Really, thank you.
"How long she been down here?"
He already knows.
Awhile like months in the crawlspace, awhile like forever minus those same months inside her head.
"Why is she wearing bones?"
"Maybe she wants to count her kills."
"I didn't know possum bones looked like that."
They could be from cats, or the dogs that go missing from his mother's yard, but he knows they aren't.
"They aren't possum bones."
"What are they from?"
People, he knows.
"Well I did kill myself."
"Constance and me got rid of my body. When we came down I was missing a hand."
She says it like it doesn't bother her, maybe it doesn't he decides considering her propensity for mutilation of her own body, what's one missing hand on a corpse?
"Can she talk?"
"She just kind of hisses."
The dirty faced girl slides over the grit and gravel of the crawlspace on scraped knees when Violet waves her over with a wary gesture. When they're face to face she reaches out and makes the girl open her mouth, and turns the face that's her's on someone else towards him.
She shines a flashlight and he can see the torn tissue of her mouth, the blood caking her gums, the tufts of fur and gore crammed between her teeth.
"What happened to her tongue?"
The flashlight clicks off and the hand unclenches from the girl's jaw, she retreats.
"What'd you do to her?"
"Is that what you think?"
He tone carries an accusation, stinging and sharp and he can't make out her face in the dark.
"'What'," she mimics, "Is that what gets you hot? Maybe I spend all my time down here because I found out I do like fucking myself. Every guy's fantasy right? Two girls. Maybe when I first met her she kissed me and shoved her tongue down my throat and I bit it out because I wasn't in the mood. Or maybe she did it herself because she's fucking nuts. Kinda have to be to live in a crawlspace and eat dead things."
She rises and dusts off her jeans, he can see her head tilted down towards him, he knows she's staring, waiting for him to peer up at her. He does and only then does she turn her head away slowly, already leaving and tossing a remark over her shoulder as she takes to her hands and knees to crawl out the narrow space leading back to the basement.
"Maybe you should ask Langdon what her tongue's been doing. Where it's been."
There's screaming from the basement, he can tell already it's one of the twins.
The real twins.
Annoying little shits.
Something scurries off away from whichever one it is that's brandishing the red metal baseball bat. The other brother has a face leaking snot and tears and a hole in the side of his head where his ear should be. It's nowhere to be found. They tell him it took it with them.
They leave, one sniffling and bawling but trying to stifle the noise and hide his tear streaked face as he sprints out of the basement and into the backyard, his twin just glares into the basement and shouts obscenities, waving his bat, wanting a fight but not knowing how to really engage one properly.
A lit cigarette flies down the stairs and hits him in the shoulder.
"Don't start what you can't finish kid, she's hungry today."
The boy runs out after his brother flipping the girl at the top of the stairs the bird and a hissed reply informing her that she's a 'crusty twat.' She says nothing and stomps down the stairs, picking up her cigarette and resuming her smoking.
"Why'd she rip off his ear?"
She barely jumps when he comes out from behind the stairs and speaks.
"She was bored."
"Is she really going to eat it?"
"No, she just thinks it's funny."
"Red headed twins, one loses an ear, it's a joke. After your time."
"It's from a book."
"Of course it is."
He's heard her reading to her twin in the crawlspace. Nabokov, Ovid, Vonnegut, Stevenson, H.G. Wells, things with monsters and fucked up people, things with wizards and fairytales, textbook entries on modern English usage, excerpted Shakespeare, anything, everything, without pattern, pulled off the shelf and cracked open with her lips forming words already written down.
She looks at him, dull, unenthused, bored.
"Why are you smiling? We're not friends, Tate. And if she listened to me, which she doesn't, she'd drag you into that hole she lives in and hurt you and then she'd gut you and bash your head in with a rock."
"Why doesn't she then?"
"Because she's stupid, or slow, or maybe she thinks you're her friend. I don't know, why don't you ask. Oh, wait! She can't talk."
"Wish you wouldn't talk," he tells her just to see her reaction, half wanting her to let out an offended half-laugh half-gasp but all she does is smirk and look at him and he can't decide if he's disappointed or giddy with her response. She puffs on her filter before speaking as she climbs the stairs, never pausing to look back, not once.
"Why don't you ask her to be your girlfriend? Her favorite color is dirt, her favorite food is week old road-kill, and she likes long crawls through the basement. Not much of a conversationalist but she's killer with arts and crafts."
There's humor in her tone, but her casual amusement chafes him and he stares out into the basement after she's gone, waiting, watching, thinking.
Something flies out of the dark.
It lands on his shoe. It's an ear.
"What's her name?"
"It, That, Thing, Hey."
"Maybe you should mind your own business, Tate."
"I never knew you were cruel."
"That's what he calls her."
"Don't be dumb. You know who."
"Langdon knows about her?"
"If she could talk she'd probably call him 'Dead Idiot'."
"What, who, when, where, why? God, shut up."
She points to where her twin is foraging in the back of the small space, hunched over something, he walks over and her doppelganger grins up with a gore stained mouth, happy, like a child making mud pies.
His own face looks up at him with dead eyes, the chest carved open like an anatomical dummy, his innards spilled into the dirt and the girl splashing the puddle of blood left inside the carcass, beaming with pride and glee and he smiles, just a little.
"I don't know if she likes it or what but this time it wasn't the same, she's was either pissed off or curious or decided maybe she didn't like it so much or maybe she did and that's how she says 'thanks', but anyway…, well whatever, she's not an easy lay all the time."
"You watched her do it?"
He looks back at Violet, chin on her upraised knee, fingers picking at the cuff of her jeans.
"I always watch."
He turns back to her twin. He's not smiling anymore.
"Is that what gets you hot?"
He thinks she must be scowling behind him at the childish dig of a question but when he looks she's just gone.
He's not quite far enough in to see them but he hears them.
"Dusty! Knock it off."
There's a violent ripping sound, fabric tearing, a girlish squeal of surprise and his own breath hitches at all the things he could be hearing. He wants to believe it's clothing ripping because he's a boy and there's two girls in the general vicinity. He stops crawling and strains to listen.
"I'm serious, quit it."
Something smacks wetly into the low wall of the crawlspace. And then something else smacks into someone else and he has no idea, frivolous, perverse, or logical of what it could be, all he knows for sure is that by the chocked screamed of disgust it's not something pleasant Dusty's throwing at her twin.
There's a rumble of an animal growl and then a loud dull thud of someone falling down.
There's silence for a moment.
And he hears shifting and movement and more silence.
"What's up with you lately? Huh? God, you're worse than a little kid. I swear."
Dusty makes a sound like a curious finch and one of them shuffles around.
"Don't try to play nice now."
Violet laughs a little, there's the flick of her Zippo and a heavy exhale that muffles her speech.
"Cute, what is that? Hey?"
She talks like someone talking to a child with a new toy that's actually is worth the attention.
"You know what you could call that a riblet, like a circlet."
There's a dry cough and hitching laughter, rasping, old, Dusty's happy.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm hilarious. Trust me, I know."
He back tracks out before Violet comes crawling out and sees him. Something flies over the low wall, it's the ripped off skin and fur of an animal made dead.
"How fucked up is that?" Langdon mumbles into his fist while they watch a hunched lump of shadow skirt furtively across the basement floor, stopping every few slides, steps, or whatever the movement it makes is called specifically to look down at its squirming bounty. She drags it by one little broken leg because its tail is half torn off from her swinging it by it. It isn't quite dead when she stabs it in the belly. The sound it makes isn't pleasant.
"Noooooo. But that's pretty fucked up too."
He looks down at his brother leaning against the banister, his own dangling leg banging into his hip. He can feel the cotton of Langdon's tee shirt against the sliver of exposed skin through the ragged denim gap his knee pokes out of when his brother crosses his arms and leans his head back against the wood to keep the shadow in his sightline.
"Then what are you talking about?"
"My freakin' rib," he rubs a hand down the line of his side, and for a moment Tate is sure his knuckles graze his own skin, but just for a moment and then it's gone. "She whittled it down…with her teeth. Her fucking teeth. She's really nuts, you know?" Langdon tilts his head back to look at him, "She ripped it out of me, broke me open with a rock. Annnnnd, I think…, she took more than one." He rubs his side again, absently.
"Maybe you shouldn't have been raping her then."
"Pfft. I don't rape it."
"Her, not It," he kicks him in the shoulder.
"Semantics," his brother shrugs.
The flippancy annoys him, "No, not semantics. She's a person. She not some animal you can just fuck whenever you want."
"She's a person? Like I'm a person?"
His chiding tone sounds bitter.
"…" Langdon ignores him and lights a stolen cigarette, he flicks the glowing matchstick away with practiced ease. They both smile at an old memory, recalling how human flesh burning smells cloying and slightly sweet, like pork.
"And she can't talk so she can't say yes, that's rape. Look it up."
"Sure, whatever," he blows out a drag. "She doesn't know what rape is. It's like animals. It's just what happens. It's on the same level as eating or breathing or shitting."
"That doesn't make it okay, you know."
"So, it's wrong."
"She started it."
"Yeah? What she do mime that she wanted to get laid?"
His grip on the side of the stairs tightens while his brother just smokes in the wake of his silence before speaking again, "Wanna know all the details?"
"You could follow her and see for yourself, firsthand experience."
His words are followed by a nod in the direction of where the shadow went.
"She's not wearing anything underneath, you know, and when she sees me she kind of just stares for awhile, and then it's like she gives up and she lies down and pulls her skirt up around her waist and opens her legs."
"Stop it," his fingers catch on a splinter and he hisses, Langdon just laughs a little.
"And she's always wet. Always."
"Fuck off!" He kicks his brother hard and all he gets as a response is a flick of dead ashes in his direction before Langdon spins out of his relaxed lean and stares up at him.
"Sometimes she gets on her knees instead, and she rubs herself against me like she's an animal, because that's what she is, that thing isn't a lost little girl, hiding because she's scared, that thing, down in there is a monster and it knows it, Violet knows too, she should. You're the only one who thinks it's a person. That thing likes being a monster but it likes to play pretend too, sometimes she'll just look at me like she's in love with me or something or she'll just wait and listen and do whatever I tell her to and then it looks at me like I'm God."
He feels sick and angry and there's rage clawing its way up his throat and latching itself to his fingers, making them twitch at the idea of his twin's throat under them, the ripples of his windpipe crushed in his grip. He untangles his legs from around the banister slats and stands, peering down into the dark where he just smokes and smiles and taunts him.
"And you know what else?"
"Shut up," he warns.
"No. She's there too. And I've never seen them do anything but I know eventually I'll catch them, eventually. Your girl's kinda stubborn. I don't think she likes being touched so much by anyone anymore, been like that ever since you fucked her, again."
He's at the bottom of the stairs, closing the space between them.
"But she watches and you know she gets wet too."
The ember of the cigarette comes off with a too hard flick at the filter, "Watching me do whatever I want with that thing that looks like her. Makes you wonder if it's because she hates that thing and likes seeing me kill it or if it's because she's basically watching you and her do it, like some weird porno."
He drops the cigarette and Tate shoves him in the brief open moment of distraction. Langdon just lies still and looks up at him with a manic smile and black eyes, feeding on the darkness he knows is there in the boy who's foot finds its way onto his throat.
"I told you to shut up but you never fucking listen. Do you?"
There's a gurgle and a brief flail of a struggle but then there's a crack and Langdon goes still.
Something in the basement chews loudly, slurping at some red, visceral meal. It might be Nora's baby, but it probably isn't.
"Would you just, shit! Come on. Get in. Get in."
There's the sound of fabric moving, shifting, the clack of metal against tile, clothes coming off.
"Jesus Christ, fine! Okay, stop. I got it. Jeez."
Water sounds, sloshing, slapping, spilling over, a slim, petite body sinking in as another makes room in the tub.
"I swear you do this on purpose, and it isn't very funny."
Habitual flicks and clicks of a lighter, a deep inhale, she's smoking in the tub and there's a splash.
There's a broken laugh, girlish, chiming, ringing.
"Wash your hair."
It's a command and a bottle top is popped open, a loud squelch of shampoo and a shake and slop of its half-empty contents.
"No, do it yourself. You're a big girl. You're not a baby. I know you understand me."
Something bangs into a wall, plastic, a boink and a clatter as it spins across the floor.
"God! You're such a brat."
A smaller splash, water being flicked, and a low growl and squeak like a little yapping dog getting it's paw stepped on.
A bigger splash.
He knows it's Violet that moves and grabs something, someone, and muffles a snarl against skin. There's another squeak, pained and angry.
"Yeah, not so fun is it?"
They go silent and he can imagine them glaring at each other.
"Later, okay? Soon. I promise."
Spit out water hitting something, someone.
"I get it, alright. I know. Just relax, later. I wanna relax for awhile."
Sounds of lathering, washing, bathing.
"You're so mangy. Come here."
A rag being squeezed, wrung out, water slopping out onto the floor as one of them gets out and walks wetly across the tiles, opens drawers, climbs back in.
A brief chorus of groans and the rasp of a hair brush.
"Well don't roll around in the dirt so much and it won't get like this."
And he can see it like he's in the room with them, Violet sitting behind her sister twin thing dragging a wet brush through knots and dirty tangles with vicious strokes, wet cigarette still clenched between her teeth and her lips crawling up and down in angry snarls, Dusty sulking petulantly and cringing or maybe flicking at the water, bored.
He can imagine how pink the bony curves of their shoulders are, the flush coloring the tops of their small breasts, the shine of sweat on their noses and foreheads. He can imagine twin moans, slapping water, them, like some poetic scene of Sapphic tendencies and soft hot skin and prismatic bubbles and girly things that are cute and perverse at the same time.
With an exhale he turns and stalks away from the locked bathroom door.
He knows it's likely his search will end with her saying 'go away' and him in the basement but still he toes open the half-closed door and walks inside.
She's slumped in the chair back in the corner of the room, barefoot and clad in worn jeans and a Ramones band shirt, she flicks the wheel on her bic lighter with lazy indulgence, over and over sparking up a flame that casts a warm, shadowy glow over her features.
Her twin sits across the room, perched on the edge of the bed with her feet barely sweeping the floorboards while they pedal and shift and sway in some strange rhythm, for once she's not covered in dirt, or torn clothes, fresh and pink from the bath he knows Violet gave her and dressed for a spring day, for green grass and backyard badmitten and ice tea lemonade and garden parties.
It's late though and their silence is unnerving, the room is near dark except for the little string of lantern lights that hang over the shelves of the bookcase.
It isn't her room, or his, or theirs, just one that is empty of the house's living residents and convenient for when the basement or the yard becomes old and tired and claustrophobic.
The girl in the chair turns her head with her thumb coming off the button of the lighter in her hand, he can't see her expression but the warm glow of the little lights slants over her twin's and there's a brief ghost of a grin there and her feet stop swinging.
He takes a step and shuts the door with a reaching arm, "Just listen, okay?"
She shares a look with the girl on the bed, they stare at each other for a long moment and he takes another step that makes both of them shift their eyes to him. Quite suddenly he feels a sickening unease. A violent, unspoken wrongness in the air that he can't place. Suddenly they're not just a pair of girls with identical expressions of amusement, they're twin vipers venomous and hungry. "What's going on?"
The girl on the bed gets up and the girl in the chair watches her move towards him. A small hand tucks itself into his and before he can decipher the look on her face she's turned and walks with him in tow to the bed. She puts her back to her twin in the chair but he can see her, sitting, in the corner, watching him over the head level with his stomach.
Fingers curl around the leather of his belt and yank; he throws out a hand to steady himself it finds purchase on a tiny shoulder and she yanks again.
She doesn't. She undoes his belt. The girl in the chair watches. He watches her. He waits for the girl unzipping his jeans to stop and start laughing because it's a joke, because the alternative that it isn't is enough to make him cum in his pants because it's still Violet watching and a girl that looks like her touching him and he's still a boy.
He's hard. The hand around him is slow and soft and missed. Her breath is sweet against his skin.
"Fuck. You're not serious." He groans at the first touch of her tongue, just the tip, barely there but damp and welcome and it makes him shake. He huffs out a heavy breath and she licks at him delicate and coy and curious, not unsure just working things out, slowly, there's no shyness from the girl in front of him, no shyness that he knows the girl in the chair used to get.
"Make her stop."
The protest is weak. He knows, he hears, he only half hopes they listen.
Slowly, like smoke, she shakes her head, the same slow movement that rocks his palm when the same face makes the same denial. It's succinct and that makes him shake too. Because they both wear smiles, identical. It's silent but sure like the hands that undress him.
"Fuck," he breathes and she arches up and eats the air out of his lungs through his mouth with hers.
His legs hang over the edge of the bed uncomfortably but her weight settles on him and he can feel the wet pulse of her sex in the space between his hips when she shifts and folds her legs on either side of his. She leans back against his thighs when he bends his knees and catches his heels on the metal frame of the bed.
Somewhere behind his head something breathes, her, a little pant dying and dissipating in the almost dark of the room but it plays over in his head and out of the mouth of the girl on top of him when he slides the buttons of her dress out of their holes so he can feel her skin again against his palms.
He wonders if the girl he's about feel around him is the girl she's wanted to be, the girl she can't be, cute and innocent and curious, the girl she's only let herself be halfway, another side that's always been barely there and tempered by wearing weird hats and tights she's never really liked under her favorite dresses, mitigating the urge to paint her nails, her lips, her skin by using shades too dark and dated instead of what would suit her, bargaining with the choice to let someone touch her but only if she's got scars to cover her skin when they peel off her clothes.
The girl in the chair with her band tees and ragged jeans and nicotine flavored fingers watches while the girl with perfect hair and cute dress and pink nails touches him, fucks him, pretends with him that she's someone's else too.
Because she's a monster and that's what they do before they eat someone, pretend they're the princess.
She slips down onto him with excruciating slowness and squirms with an expression etched into her face he can't quite place while he tosses back his head and buries his skull into the edge of the mattress, her insides hug him hello and he wonders if all girls feel the same or if it's just her that feels the same as the girl in the chair.
He bucks up and there's a small pained cry and he feels it, familiar and his dick twitches because now he's two for two, there's male pride in the sentiment until he realizes she's been fucked before and killed before and she only comes back a virgin but still it's him tearing that last vestige of innocence away in the girl who's a monster this time instead of it being someone who just looks like him doing it.
He mumbles a haphazard apology he knows she won't care about while she wriggles on top of him trying to wait out the ache that hurts more than it helps.
Still she doesn't move and when his eyes open it's to a confused face peering down and studying his expression, inquisitive and questing. She unfolds a leg and puts a foot flat on the bed, sliding the length of her pale, smooth limb to the edge of bed, hooks the back of her heel there and he clenches he teeth at the feel of her body tightening plush and hot around him.
Her little hand cups his knee and she moves, tentative and slow, his hips follow and she whines sharply behind her lips at the pressure of his body rolling up against all the spots she needs it. The same spots her twin has always needed them. When he pulls himself back into the mattress he watches her chest move between the hanging folds of her open dress, the soft small curves of her breasts push out and the way she rolls her lips against each other. Her mouth moves like her fingers on his knee, she follows his hips with hers after a moment and when his sink further down, pressed deep into the bed, her pelvis slaps down hard and they both gasp, loudly, losing all their breath and heaving for another.
He puts his hand inside her dress and holds her tiny waist, pulling her down harder the next time and all the times after. His eyes catch the twitch of movement that's her foot wiggling, his presses a kiss to her bony ankle and she nudges his mouth back in response.
When he looks up he expects a smile that usually accompanies such little gestures with the version of her that he hasn't made so bitter but there isn't because she's leaned back against the support of his wide spread thighs, propped up with one leg twisted like a doll whose fallen from a shelf with her head lolling back and her mouth working for air or words she can't speak while her delicate fingers work under her dress at her swollen, sensitive, clit.
He slides a hand up her ribs, skimming her breast before stretching up so he can cradle the back of her head enough to catch her attention. The expression he finds is the same one she always gets when she's close, they both share that too, he knows. His thumb catches her bottom lip and the girl with the face he knows so well let's a tongue he knows is kitten pink dart out and leave a lick of wetness on his skin that he rubs over the same little nub her own fingers work frantically at when his hand flutters back down her body and creeps under her dress.
She bucks and thrashes at the firm press of his thumb, too much he knows but he follows her hip and throws his own up hard to leave her no room to squirm, she cries out like it hurts but he knows it does anything but. He leaves her gasping and relishes the spasms and the hot wash of fresh wetness coating him and keeps rubbing until she grabs his wrist and forces him to stop.
Her body twists up, dances down and he runs his unwanted hand along the line of muscle moving back and forth with every stroke at the inside of her thigh. The dress parts wider and her watches the almost unnoticeable bounce and jump of her tiny breasts while she rides him. The brush of her hair on the tops of his knees is soft and teasing and he just breathes the scent of sex, letting her slide up and slip down and fuck him with abandon, trying to make him lose his mind.
When he comes she still moves and he can feel the hot stickiness of it dripping out of her and onto him, slicking him up and making the sound of her movement that much more obscene. He slips out and she plants the wet humid heat of her cunt onto his abdomen and watches his face for a moment before rolling off and looking off into the room at the other girl.
He sits up and looks over his shoulder in time to have his jeans hit him in the face, the metal stud of the button splitting his gum with a bloody stinging bit of pain that's sharp enough to make him hiss, he scowls at the girl who's thrown them at him.
Another article of clothing hits him in the face and a girlish giggle follows and a snicker too.
He frowns and they smile. He puts on his briefs and reaches to put on his jeans when a bare foot plants itself into the bottom of his spine and send him sprawling off the bed, onto the floor.
The girl in the dress smiles before she drags her twin down, she falls clumsily and ends up under the same girl as he had been. His thoughts fizzle and die, his eyes see and his brain registers that they kiss but he can't quite comprehend it.
She lets her twin's fingers undress her, her shirt and jeans thrown off the bed in vague directions and with an elastic snap her panties end up on his knee, the one undressing her gives him a grin that's all teeth. He hears her fingers slip in and he can hardly believe the girl getting them pushed into her can be that wet.
But then he remembers how she likes to watch.
He hears the hitch of her breath, her gasp, her low moan and then the echo of it from an identical mouth when her twin takes a thigh between her own and rubs her hot sticky cunt along it. He watches the girl whose already fucked him fuck her, watches the girl that's a monster press her cheek into the other's chest and stare at him. He watches their hips cant forward and back and catalogues the wet squelch of her body around those slim fingers she's so used to fucking her but now penetrating her from an angle she can't reach when she does it herself.
There's a whimper that follows their removal and he and her watch rapt with wide eyes when her twin stretches up to plant a quick kiss on her lips before trailing down. Peppering her neck and chest and stomach in quick succession with wet, sticky, kisses and stopping to let out a breath over hot slick skin they're all familiar with, her twin licks.
She mewls and her thighs clamp shut before parting and sliding themselves over shoulders that aren't as wide as his but strong enough to hold the weight of her legs, palms cradle the back of her thighs and fingers press into the soft sides and a wet little tongue laps at her insistently.
Her hair flies over her face and the mattress and she shakes her head while her hips buck up and jerk. She pulls at her twin's hair and yanks her up, make her lie her head on her hip and replace tongue with fingers and make her cum.
But she still pulls at her hair, tugs until her twin hisses and stops to swing up and glare down angrily at her mirror image lying back on the bed until it pushes her and all he can see is the bare bottom and smooth back of the one who'd been watching him get fucked.
Their legs tangle and he can't help himself, knowing what they're doing. He finishes pulling on his jeans and climbs up onto the bed, props himself back against the pillows and they barely even notice, barely care, to mesmerized in each other and what it's like to have someone who looks exactly like them to touch, to watch, to get touched by, fucked by.
The naked one of her unravels first, her toes curling in the sheets close to his own and stretching forward into the other girl, pressing their heads together, and breathing out her breathes onto the lips of the other. The girl in the dress just rocks and then stops suddenly, coming, and finally lets out a long sigh before slumping and curling up around the other girl.
Fingers and hands rearrange themselves and curl into the other's grasp still wet and slick with his and hers scents, bitter, odd, tangs of arousal and orgasm.
He moves and the bed creaks, both sets of eyes dismiss him with how lacking their gaze is. It's obvious that he's as wanted as he's needed, which is not at all, he gets off the bed, puts on his shirt and leaves them to enjoy their post-coital bliss while he nurses a lingering hard on.
"For a guy that just got laid you're pretty morose," Langdon tells him while eyeing the streaks of red coloring his brother's half hard anatomy. He licks, long and fast and gone in a second. Teasing, just a taste. More for his own benefit than the squirming pleasure of the boy under him.
"You suck at this," Tate tells him with a brief scowl that only makes him roll his eyes in response.
"Ha ha hee haw."
His breath is a hot rasp.
"You think you'd know your way around my dick better, just saying. She's way better at this than you."
A smile forms, disbelieving and indulgent on Langdon's face, "Bullshit."
"What's so funny now?"
"You're such a little liar," his twin informs him with another lick.
"Ain't no way she's better at this than me," he speaks into his skin, breath humid.
"Jealous?" Tate smirks and quirks an eyebrow down at his twin.
"Soooo jealous, I've always wanted to be a tongueless brainless pet eating girl for all eternity."
"What did you say?"
And suddenly things click. Langdon looks up and for a moment mirrors his own confusion back at him, but then there's a lopsided grin and a small laugh.
"…oh. Heh, guess I'm an idiot too, huh?" His twin stares pointedly at the swollen length in his loose grip, eyeing it carefully, the smear of red wetness there, "I didn't kill her last time I did her so obviously she wasn't the one who got their cherry popped…again."
"Oh god," Tate breathes banging his head hard against the floor, "Violet."
"You got played, by the promise of sweet pussy. Could be worse."
"That's just…god," he scrubs at his face with an angry, quick hand.
"She's pretty mean, ain't she?"
"Fucking evil," he agrees.
"It's kinda hot."
"Shut up and suck if you're gonna."
"Not sucking, licking," Langdon corrects before swiping at his twin's skin again with a wet, warm tongue that knows exactly what to do.
"Real cute," his twin mumbles before wrapping lips around his least important worry at the moment.
"Watch your fucking teeth!" The rough scrape is anything but pleasant. Langdon releases him with a slick pop of lips and tongue, "Sensitive?"
"…" Tate glares at him as well as he can.
"What'd they do to you? Both or just one, or both at once or both but one by one, or what?"
"Shut up," he closes his eyes.
"Don't be a jerk, tell me."
He feels the exhale of the response on him and he squirms on the hard, harsh floor, hips rising to knock the other boy back into action.
"And then they ignored me and shit...," he sighs heavily when heat engulfs him, "yeah…fuck…," he moans because Langdon's always been good with his mouth. Nevermind his linguistic tendencies to never shut the fuck up, and he thinks Langdon looks pretty good with a mouth full of dick instead of harsh jibes and mean verbal digs.
"Keep talking, I'm listening."
"Violet and Dusty, use your imagination," he yanks on blonde curls to try to redirect the perfectly attuned mouth where it belongs, a hand takes it place instead and jerks him roughly.
"That so fucking hot."
"And now they're taking a nap."
"All worn out."
"More like lazy."
"She fucked you, what else is she supposed to do? Throw you a parade? She still hates you."
"She hates everything."
"I don't hate you."
Langdon rolls his eyes but nods all the same and does what he's asked to, as sure as he is his twin is trying to soothe the sting left by the girl he still loves the feeling persists, he cums but it's not as good as it usually is, it's haunted by the ghost of regret and softer lips than those that belong to him.
In the days that follow he manages to convince himself that he was wrong. She hates him, he decides. It was never her on top of him, he's sure. Just Dusty and her progenitor's cruel mockery.
He's sure but when he sees her outside, smoking in the shade, every so often biting at her cuticles, he decides to ask, regardless of her mood.
The way she peels pale pink polish off her fingernails with her teeth and spits the pieces onto the grass is more than answer enough. And so is the self important smile she wears, the way she sucks the filter of her cigarette between teeth with flakes of pink stuck on them, making the little orange ember glow bright with her long, steady inhale, slow like the smoke seeping out the chasm of her open lips and spiteful grin. He stops walking towards her and turns around, back to the house, the basement, Langdon, it's all he really has.
A/N: Yeah did you guys see that one coming? The old switch-a-roo? Dusty doesn't talk, ever. Or rather Dusty never has a tongue, why? Violet gives about four reasons in the beginning as to why she doesn't, it's could be any and all of them. Also for anyone that didn't get the callback to "The Devil's Advocate" in this the fact that Violet tells Tate that Langdon calls Dusty 'Crazy Bitch' was a clue that Langdon's known about Dusty for longer than Tate has because at the end of TDA he mentions going off to find 'Crazy bitch' who readers were supposed to think meant Hayden.
And also I've been dying to put a Fred and George Weasley joke in since FOREVER because really redheaded twins? How could I not? Also they have bats. So do Fred and George…because they're Beaters. Oh god, my fangirl is showing.
And also dude! I wrote femmeslash, oh my god. Never thought I would, never thought I could, but I DID! Go me!
Punishing the Wicked by Lovely Helena: The dialogue, mostly, and the smut and the fact that it's a post finale fic with aftermath and fallout and just because I liked it.
I Think You Should Know I'm Damaged by gimmedanger: AU Violate, and they're both more than a little crazy, I dig it.
Possessionby The Walking Reedus: Violate, Kink smut in its most glorious and fucked up form, dirty, filthy, awful, and wonderful.
the w o r s t kind of lonely by mktoddsparky: Really all around wonderful Constance fic, good god this one was just…there are no words just go and read. Lots of emotions lots of just bitter humor and a woman whose got nothing but what she makes for herself, just powerful writing.
The Sporting Life by ohyellowbird: AU Violate oneshot, the epitome of cool and smart and really just 'how did you think of that?' writing that just makes other writers wicked jealous and want to steal another author's brain.
Now if you all will excuse me I'm tired and need to catch a cat nap or just hibernate for like a day and a half. And hey! ohyellowbird! Ball's in your court now, you're move.