Title: Motivations, Machinations
Summary: He knows he's stepped in something that he isn't going to scrape off easily.
Warning(s)/Kink(s): Language, violence, sexual situations, some seemingly dub-con themes
Disclaimer: I don't own American Horror Story
Author's Notes: Written for the ahs_exchange over on livejournal.
The kid and his partner have more in common than either would willingly acknowledge if he mentioned it, but he won't (because he isn't a moron and he likes his genitals attached to his body and not used as decorative centerpieces as an ode to male virility or a coin purse to put in a Michael Kors, or who the hell ever, designer satchel).
Needy men. His eyes roll and his stomach clenches unpleasantly at the idea.
But maybe her needy man complex is why the poster girl for teen angst and affectation has taken to Chad, he's needy and picky and bitchy to the same level of a bleeding female, except for him it's an hourly, daily, lifelong emotional roller coaster where as for her it was only once a month and now never since ghost girls don't have to rag it anymore.
He's the perfect gal pal and the only person she won't blow up on for calling her a 'stupid bitch', which he suspects is probably only because he's a gay stereotype: musicals, designer slacks, homes and garden subscriptions, adopt little Asian musical prodigies to play the role of tiger mom to. She's grown to expect that much from him.
If he's being fair he's a stereotype too, gay man who'd dueled with his inner sexuality for years, taking up everything 'not gay' to mitigate all the homosexual in him, the heavy athleticism, the women, the nonrecognition that dudes walking swinging dicks through locker rooms left him with a hard one.
He doesn't quite know if his bitchier half and Little Miss Grunge are friends but they do spend an exorbitant amount of time picking each other apart with little digs and outright hostility, like two girls in a high school clique battling for alpha female status, and if they aren't then they're at least used to belittling each other to make themselves feel better about too little love, too much love, ugly draperies, cheap cigarettes, and blonde fuck-ups.
Chad isn't the only one who gets wood over the prospect of home improvement, he himself shares the same fixation. It has something to do with all the years of being anti-gay that spawned his extensive knowledge of power tools and a Mister Fix-It persona, reserved for emergency flat tire repairs and weekends without rain.
Which is why he's re-tarring the roof and putting in new shingles.
The "rejuvenation" as the Realtor From Hell (and discount suit store shopper) calls it is a way of trying to get rid of the house shaped monkey on her back. The workers are off for the day and he has nothing better to do anyway so he toils in the sun and enjoys the slickness of sweat dripping down from his scalp to his neck and ears until the prickly heat of his backwards baseball cap and the damp itch across his thighs under the denim of his jeans is unbearable.
He goes in for a beer and finds the unlikely duo sitting on opposite sides of the kitchen island. Chad's nursing wine, Violet's sucking on a cigarette. They regard him as little more than furniture, a muttered hello from the only person he's loved (really loved, to exhaustion, physical, mental, emotional exhaustion) and a haphazard half-grimace, half-scowl that's the closest she gets to a smile anymore.
It's cool in the kitchen, the air conditioning is on because of the perpetual open house 'Previous Dead Owner's Pet Rescuer' and really fucking horrible house seller has going on every weekend in the summer.
"Want a glass?" Chad perks. There's a certain kind of hunger in the tone of the offer and the look that comes with it.
But he's had years of practice to know how to play the game, dance the steps, talk the talk and end up getting Chad to act like a normal human being in love with a normal human being instead of a happy homemaker on speed and booze.
He plays it cool, not too aloof, not too dismissive.
"Too heavy, probably end up puking all over the roof if I had any."
Chad's nose wrinkles up at the notion of someone puking over the edge of the roof onto the freshly manicured lawn, or worse the lawn furniture.
Because that'd be absolutely dreadful.
More frat boy than manly man.
He pokes through the fridge and the conversation that stopped when he came in picks up again, he half-listens, half-ignores pondering his mental checklist of manly tasks to complete before the sun goes down; there's a loose latch on the backyard fence, a hole under the shrubs from some dog next door trying to come over and play with all the dead people, there's a broken slat on the gazebo railing, little things to help him wait out Chad's icicle façade, but he's melting, slowly.
Popping off the cap on his beer with the counter edge he hears a distinct jibe of 'asshole', from behind him.
When he turns Chad isn't looking at him but Violet looks up, probably confused at why he's so angry over being called an asshole but he is, Chad likes to pick over things, things that matter for shit and he can't stand it.
But the object of his fast growing scorn turns and waves a hand, swallowing a mouthful of wine before explaining, "Not you, we're not talking about you."
The girl's mouth puckers into an ugly little scowl and she rolls her eyes.
Today it looks like her fucked up romantic association is up for review. But for the moment Chad's eyes are all over him and his sweat and his fresh musk of 'manly man working hard'.
"How's the roof look?" Chad asks.
And he smiles, slow, seductive, and perhaps not discreet and natural as he wants because Violet barks out a laugh when he answers with a smooth, "Looks good."
Later when they've moved out to the gazebo to watch the fireflies float around and flicker on and off in the hot humid air, he's lying up on the roof, listening to the conversation.
"Have you seen him?"
There's a long pause and then Chad asking, "What'd he do?"
"Nothing. It's stupid."
"That means he did something not nothing if what he did was stupid."
Up on the roof he smiles at the little quip out of the mouth of the man he loves always, hates sometimes.
"He steals my sheets."
"Why, because he doesn't want you to enjoy the comfort of Egyptian cotton, high thread counts?"
He rolls his eyes and smirks at the dry humor from down below.
"He steals them and puts new sheets on the bed that look the same so I don't notice."
"Oh. Oh. Ewwwww. And he…"
Probably rubs them all over himself like the little psycho he is.
"I don't know, probably rolling around in the attic in my fucking sheets, jerking off, crying, whatever. Shit, this is depressing. He's such a cunt."
"Yeah, he is."
"He acts like he knows."
"You know too."
"That forever is a long time, yes. I noticed."
"Me too. So I know, but still, I just want to know."
He can guess what she wants to know.
He can guess because he's played the other side of the same situation with Chad (and learned it didn't work when things came to a head, when there were online chat transcripts, cell phone records, and other guys' dicks).
She wants to know if the house's number one pariah, her half brother's baby daddy, really thinks she's so much a little girl still that she needs his sensitivity, his cloying presence, his protection, his soothing words and kind smile, his coddling, and his dick in order to not break, wants to know if it's fake or real, if inside he's focused on putting on that mask in order to have her be his.
They call it a night and as she walks through the house looking for something to do, she sees the innocent little board game set-up he's placed at the end of the dining room table.
The tiles spell out a short sentence. He saw it earlier. He read it. It's creepy. It proves he's not only stalking her but that he is actually jerking off into her bed sheets.
She pretends she doesn't read it.
He's sitting in the dining room with a half-drunk glass of wine that was left in the kitchen, drinking in the dark when the boy shows up, looks at the board, frowns.
When he speaks the boy doesn't even startle.
"She's still pissed at you. Matter of fact everyone is, just for different things. Asshole."
"She's not angry, not really. Fag."
"She called you a cunt."
"She's just a little bitter over the whole thing."
And it's a little irritating when he shrugs as if her anger isn't justified but he'll acknowledge that she at least thinks it is, like she's a child, it's irritating until Patrick realizes it's not his fucking problem.
He's busy burning a neat little circle into his forearm with a lit cigarette just because he wants to see what happens when Mister DSM handbook pops up to say hello by way of obvious statement of fact.
"I'd be happy to help you out with that, you know."
His interest is peaked at just how the kid thinks he can help out. In a fair fight he's pretty sure he can take the kid any day of the week, month, year, forever.
"Meet me by the fireplace and I'll reintroduce you to an old friend." With a cruel laugh and a smirk his murderer is gone and his arm is whole again.
He's finished the roof repair, and is working on the dog dug escape routes. The old bitch next door's baby faced boy toy is trimming the hedges and it's all he can do not to ogle him outright. He's not the only one. It's like a goddamn silent soap opera; He's watching Travis, Chad's watching him watch Travis, Violet's watching Travis, Tate's watching her watch Travis. All they need is for Constance to swing out her backdoor in some nightgown never meant to see the light of day, stinking drunk and saggy titted and Hayden to come up from the basement where she broods and probably files her teeth into flesh rending points.
Chad, Tate, Constance, Hayden. They can all grab a limb and tear Travis apart.
There is such a thing as too good looking.
Not to say he himself isn't pretty fucking fit and fine himself, but he's gay and safe to stare at, because he isn't into pussy, per say. Anymore at least.
But Travis? He's probably choking on all the estrogen wafting in his direction.
And then things get weird.
Tate Langdon just sprints across the yard and starts doing laps around the house in a pair of running shorts, bare chested and golden and suddenly Violet Harmon isn't staring at Travis anymore and her stare isn't so hungry as it is bloodthirsty.
Tate Langdon is a bit of a bitch. Petty, childish, and not exactly hideous.
He runs for two hours.
Violet's gone inside to sulk.
Chad's on his third glass of wine and watches the interlude of yard work silently seething.
And so that's when he's calling it a day and goes to sprawl out in the shade and his curiosity is peaked when there's a muttered conversation being spoken in seductive tones from the stairs leading down to the basement door.
That's when he goes and watches Mister Track Star Attention Whore bash open Hayden's head on the cement stairs for stretching herself over him like a fucking jungle cat and trying to put her paws down his shorts.
After that and dragging her into the basement he resumes his lounge on the stairs and it isn't even fucked up at this point that he's got an obvious boner at the site of all the gore stuck drying stickily on the stairs (it's expected really since psychos get off on carnage).
He's at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the cement wall jerking off, furiously. His cock all heavy and angry looking, his balls swaying with every tug, shorts around his thighs and neck tendons stretched tight and it's practically pornographic.
Really he can't help it, he's got a tightness in his groin and a throb starting in his own dick and like he's said/thought/known, Tate Langdon is a bitch and bitches are hot. If they weren't he never would have gone after Chad and all his needy bullshit.
"Pederast," is all the blonde boy says when he sees him.
He counters quick, "Kid, you're the one gagging for it."
"Come on, you can do better than that," Tate taunts back.
He's turning to go find something better and more wholesome to do than watch his murderer touch himself.
"Between the two of us you're the one who wins the most fucked up award."
"Pfft," he snorts a little at the shouted statement of obvious information.
"No really, haven't you heard? I'm a psychopath, it's a disease. A horribly incurable disease, I can't help myself. But you…you're all hot and bothered over your underaged murderer."
He sits down at the top of the stairs and slumps a little to hide the fact that he's half-hard, "Technically you're older than me."
"Does that make you feel less dirty when you're jerking off to me?"
"Don't flatter yourself."
"You're the one watching."
"You're the one who's still jerking off."
"You're not the only one who likes to watch."
And the little bitchy blonde psycho is smirking and turning his head to stare into the basement.
A cigarette flies out and he can guess it's meant to hit Langdon's dick but it misses and burns a little welt into his knee.
Later when he's watching a typically beautiful California sunset he'll find her smoking sullenly, sulking, (equally typical). He'll tell her it's perfectly normal to get bored enough to forget people are assholes and she'll scowl at him, still so bitter and young despite the years that have gone by since the truth came out, and tell him that she hasn't forgotten a fucking thing.
"So are you the mommy or the daddy?"
He's starting to wonder if Tate Langdon has plans of his own.
He doesn't bother with people he isn't about to use, kill, or fuck.
"You talk too much."
The kid smirks and continues down the hall to silently and invisibly watch the object of his obsession.
He knows he's stepped in something that he isn't going to scrape of easily.
But that's alright because the little psycho isn't the only one who knows how to play games.
Part of him wants to do it because the kid really needs to know he's not exactly playing at an original part when it comes to angry, screwed up, moral voids of a person.
Part of him wants to pretend he wants to do it because the girl Tate Langdon drove to death deserves better but needs to get unhooked from the snare she's trapped in.
In reality the majority of him wants to do it because proving he's more devious than a crazy person has a certain appeal to it and it's been awhile since he's cum as hard as he had the night before when his jerk off fantasy turned from innocuous to depraved and the image of beating the shit out of the kid that killed him.
In essence the way he gets from Point A (resentful indifference towards) to Point B (blowing) Tate Langdon is because he said something and then the kid said something to the effect of 'blow me' and so he decided to take it at its most literal meaning. Meaning that he is in fact perfectly ready to put things in his mouth he probably shouldn't put in his mouth.
And while he's pretty sure Langdon isn't gay it doesn't seem to weigh to heavily that he's about to get his dick sucked by a dude, in fact he seems pretty bored with the whole idea, like the kid's doing him a favor or something.
Maybe it's a thing crazy people have that normal people don't or maybe they have something lacking. Maybe Tate Langdon just wants to feel something (superiority or the inside of someone's mouth).
"If you bite me I'll find you later and smash all your teeth out and shove my dick so far down your throat you'll suffocate."
He rolls his eyes.
Langdon holds out his dick like a little pompous prince with a scepter, haughty and begging (sarcastically and caustically) to be entertained but not really believing that anyone can, certainly not the older man on his knees between his.
"Now who's gagging for it?"
He has, last Halloween, covered in glitter encased in tight denim.
He refrains from mentioning anything else (like the fact that while drunk Ben Harmon becomes much easier to persuade to engage in homosexual experimentation or that Vivien actually doesn't seem to mind the idea, he wonders if Violet would be as forgiving).
Quite frankly he just loves dick, the look, the feel, the smell, it's pretty much the best thing ever and despite the boy being a horrible monster with a pretty face he does have a pretty beautiful cock.
Textbook representation, thick and heavy and leaking precum. Maybe not so textbook, more like artistic porn.
And fuck if Langdon doesn't look perfectly at ease with his legs splayed and his ratty jeans around his dirty converse sneakers, the worn tee shirt obscuring the downy blonde trail of hair that leads down from his abdomen to his groin, he should look nervous, he should be getting twitchy, but all he's doing is breathing and waiting, patient and anticipatory.
If he didn't know the kid was dangerous before he'd know right now, all that easy languid sprawl of his does is set everyone else on edge, lethal ease.
He makes sure to scrape him a little with his teeth just to hear him hiss.
Salt and sweat, nothing new as far as taste goes. A grunt, a rattling sound that might be a smothered growl because he knows (and knew well before he even got down on his knees) that Tate Langdon only groans and moans and pouts and cries out for is Violet Harmon.
It's that simple.
Simple because she's the only one the basket case wants to make those sounds for.
He makes it last, drags out the evitable (what's usually a screaming orgasm from whoever is on the receiving end of his expert mouth, but in this case probably will be just a little smirk and silent gasp, he'll take it. Either strokes his ego well enough and proves that he at least keeps his word and won't back down but as far as backing down goes Langdon surprisingly hasn't, and probably won't now that he's got lips around his dick. Can't fault a guy for not saying no to a free suck).
When there's a suitable amount of slickness he's pulls back with a hard suck and flicks at the tip, tonguing the little slit dripping beads of salt across his tastebuds, he goes down fast swallowing and twisting his head back and forth to map every throbbing vein.
And there's the tell tale twitch and he lets the mouthful of cum slide down his throat, he gives one last, long lick up his dick and sits back, shaking off the feel on pins and needles tingles from his feet.
He thought it'd take longer.
And oddly enough, despite having just been given an expert blowjob there's confusion and maybe a bit of disappointment etching furrows into the younger blonde's face.
The look makes him want to scoff and explain that without a doubt he's just given the kid the best hummer of his life, not that Tate Langdon can appreciate the fine nuances of receiving oral sex (he's going on the assumption that he's never had his dick sucked before, had it sucked when he was alive, or hasn't had it sucked in years since he kind of scared the only person willing to have sex with him away by raping her mother and pretending to be an actual caring human being) but still, comparatively, he's way better at giving them than an almost virginal teen girl who's probably only seen one dick in her entire life.
Violet Harmon's mouth in no way rivals his and that's a fact.
No one know dick better than a gay man.
Unless the little creep wants to throw a four letter word around and say without that sex isn't as fulfilling and savory, and then there's also that little thing about Violet that he just can't beat. She's a girl and Langdon likes them more than he likes expert blowjobs from a guy.
To each his own, really.
He gets up, and goes off to find something to do, Langdon yanks up his boxers and jeans and flops sideways to spread himself across the couch, lethargic, lazy, absolutely relaxed, or playing to pretend he is.
He walks by the open bathroom door and sees that Langdon's slicing at his arms, there's blood everywhere. Fleetingly he wonders if their her razorblades the kid's using, with crusts of her own blood dried on them, wonders if it's the boy's way of feeling close to her in some sick, disturbed way that he'll equate to real poetic action.
"I could hurt you. If you want," he offers leaning against the door frame, Tate Langdon just laughs.
"What are you laughing about?"
"Okay, come on. Hurt me." And the way it's said is as if there's nothing in the world that can hurt him anymore, not a damn thing.
For a moment he wishes the girl could hear him say it like that because no doubt she'd try harder and succeed and Tate Langdon would know what it's like to really suffer.
When it happens it's because the past month has been shit day after shit day, everyone's pissed off, the weather's too hot, all anyone wants to do is stir the pot (not mind their own business) and start drama (kill each other).
Violet kills Chad over one queen bitch comment too much.
Chad kills Violet.
Tate kills Chad (it really isn't his partner's month at all, but he kind of deserves it) slowly and horribly.
And he's there when Chad wakes up and so Chad tries to kill him (for what he doesn't know, probably the whole thing about sucking Tate Langdon's dick, but then again he's not sure Chad knows about that yet) but really he isn't some buck fifteen teenage girl with fragile little limbs and a fall down the stairs won't kill him more than irritate him.
But still Chad's surprised when he doesn't get killed again for trying to cause the love of his life bodily harm (death) and when in response to 'why not' all he gets is a shrug Chad looks like he's about to cry, he looks like he's humbled or something, looks at him like he used to when they were in love and fucking every day and picking out their dream house.
So, that's the start. He decides to kill Tate, for fun and retribution and because it will make Chad happy and him just feel great and who else can really beat the shit out of Langdon? Ben Harmon or Travis, maybe, but Ben Harmon has self-control for days and miles, and Travis is more of a 'make love, not war' kind of dumbass.
In his defense he does actually beat the shit out of him first.
And then he's choking him until his eyes are glassy and starting to roll back when he realizes his dick's hard.
His dick really needs to take a crash course in what constitutes as good timing.
He's wrestling him on the floor until he finally has enough of a grip on the kid's jeans to dump him out of them and get them around his knees and for what it's worth the little psycho doesn't even ask what the fuck is going on, he knows, they both do. There's a laugh and a goad and a snarl while he's undoing his own jeans and forcing them down enough and then there isn't much time for ass appreciation because quite frankly his dick's so hard it hurts and he wants what he's about to do to hurt.
The little psycho doesn't deserve an easy ride and compared to a fire place poker a dry dick is a blessing. It must still hurt though since he can see him biting down on his forearm when he's spreading him open and pressing in and pushing hard.
And while he's pliant and propped up under him he's not saying no, he's not saying stop, but then again sometimes sex isn't just for pleasure, sometimes it's to prove a point.
But that's not to say the inside of Tate Langdon doesn't feel tight and hot and a-fucking-mazing, because there's that too. There's also an elbow swinging back into his cheekbone and the back of Langdon's skull splitting his lip but there's not enough leverage or build-up in the blows to really get them to stick or hurt as badly as they should.
He's jeans are plastered unpleasantly to his thighs and his shirt is itchy from sweat across his shoulders while he snaps his hips forward and yanks them back.
His balls slap into the back of the younger blonde's every time he gets all the way in and the muscles inside try to push him out, desperately, uselessly, there's heat and a tight ache building in his groin and he pulls out to spurt hot and messy all over the unblemished back of the boy under him.
"Nice dominance display."
"Uh…yeah," is all the kid says as he pulls up his pants and wipes cum off with a shirt that isn't his and throws it at him after he's done with it.
"Fucking Christ, why'd you even…?"
"I don't like you, you or Martha Stewart."
He wonders how that's led to this.
"And you know he's going to find out, and if he knows then she'll know and then she'll come looking for an explanation, she can't help it. Kind of hard to get her to have a conversation with me. And ruining your relationship is just a bonus."
"…," he's speechless. Of course that's his reasoning; of course it goes back to that one thing, the only thing that the kid really wants at all.
"But hey, don't be so ungrateful, you got what you wanted and so will I. Win-win. Right?"
"You think I can play it off like you raped me?"
"You're fucking insane."
"No, I'm not, I'm in love, you're the asshole. I mean really, you think he's going to put up with this? You just fucked me."
"You let me fuck you."
"Suuuure, I mean you've only got what? Fifty pounds on me, and are six inches taller, plus you hate me, plus you like sticking your dick in things you shouldn't…-"
"Point is when you love someone you're willing to do what it takes to protect them and so to do that I can't exactly keep getting sent away all the time by her, I've had worse beatings than that anyway."
He just stands and thinks for a long time.
"It didn't work, did it?" It's his turn to come out of the woodwork like a bothersome insect and laud over being superior.
The surly boy holds up three fingers.
"What does that mean?"
"One: you can suck my dick, two: you can go away, three: I can perforate your colon with something long and sharp and uncomfortable."
He smiles and shrugs before leaving. He's got a bit of fallout to deal with but that's okay, Chad seems to have a positive reaction (jealousy, possessive assertiveness, grows some balls) whenever he hits really close to home with his sexual indiscretions.
A/N: I wrote slash, again. Hmmmm. Getting pretty good at this sort of thing.