Authors: grayglube & ohyellowbird

Title: The Devil's Crossroads

Summary: It's a painful thing, admitting to himself that he'd choose a girl over someone he's spent two decades with, but honestly, it's an easy choice. Collab with ohyellowbird. The last part of our "Devil's" series.

Rating: M

Warning(s)/Kink(s): Language, violence, sexual situations, self-mutilation, pseudo twincest, faux incest

Disclaimer: We don't own American Horror Story.

A/N: This is pretty much it guys, we're finally at the end. We've been working on this collab for a very long time and it's finally done. Enjoy. Thanks for sticking around. Also if I could give this story a second title it'd probably be Toaster Girl and Hamster Boy. You'll get the joke later.

"Hey," Langdon waves a hand jauntily, jumping down into the sunken room.

Dusty all but runs over, all wide eyes and dirt smeared loveliness. Crouched and compliant as he leans down, "I think this is gonna be it for awhile crazy bitch," he smiles widely and she throws a handful of dirt at him before lunging back to dodge his haphazard swing.

"Yeah, I know. This blows," he tells her, sitting heavily, leaning back on his elbows waiting for her to come crawling back through the dirt to sit by him.

When she does she holds a long bone out to him, his rib, held in a limp fingered grip. Reluctant. "Heh, what's this? Don't get cute cause it's not gonna work you little monster, you'd have better luck making him feel bad for you."

Her face goes pugnacious and she tosses the proffered token away into a corner with other trophies and he knows he won't be able to pick it out from the others in the no doubt colossal pile of gruesome little keepsake treasures.

"Oh come on, I'm not completely unsentimental, I'm here right?"

She pouts and picks at her scabbed knees with morbid fascination.

"Forever's a really long time, okay? Don't be sad, put your big girl panties on and deal with it."

He's bumming himself out, he lights the cigarette tucked behind his ear and puffs softly on the filter, "It's just gonna take them awhile to get sick of us this time, but they will get sick of us, don't worry about that."

She coos and nudges him before lying down in the dirt and thrusting at the air with her hips, pulling her dress up and turning over onto her knees.

It's one of his favorite sights but there's something lacking in the idea that there's nothing grand about their final hurrah, "Nah, not today."

The looks she sends is one of complete confusion, as if he'd started speaking gibberish to her.

"Well not like that today, you ever think about what it'd be like to be her?"

Dusty cocks her head like a curious pet.

"I know you hear me. Sometimes I think about being him, I don't know, it seems like it's hard work to be real like that," he admits snubbing out his cigarette. "I wonder what it's like to do it with someone you love," he goes on.

Her eyes go wide and she swings up to preen against his cheek.

"No. Not you."

She makes a sad, lonely sound and then calms, her hands pulling at his clothes before her lips press against his in a tiny kiss like the ones she's seen her twin give his brother.

"Okay fine, I guess we could try it, I don't know what the difference is, it's all just fucking, doesn't matter if it's slow or gentle, it's still fucking."

He makes a conscious choice to not thrust as hard as usually, to keep his pace slow and goes as far as to pretend they aren't in a crawlspace but someplace cliché romantic, a beach, under the stars, a bed. She whines bitterly, annoyed. He can't help but agree. Her eyes are blank and she's not moving much and he's about to go limp, "Okay, sorry. This was a dumb idea; I have more fun masturbating than this."

He stops her from rolling over and puts her knees in his elbows and gives her a brutal thrust, she squeaks and clenches, "Okay. Better?" She coos in response.

Given a situation of brutal fucking he thinks the faces she makes are actually nice to watch, more responsive, more normal girl than monster living under the floorboards.

He cums violently and rocks up into her body and when he's about to smash her in the skull with a rock all ready prepared for the task a voice stops him, "Having fun?"

His eyes swivel to catch sight of her twin. The girl under him squeals happily and darts out from beneath him to bound over to her.

"Did you come to play?" He grins.

"Don't make throw a cat carcass at you."

He laughs and zips his pants, climbing out of the room and giving her a wink as he goes.

Sounds of violence are loud and unrelenting once he gets halfway towards the end of the crawl through the underside of the house, "Christ, Langdon," he mumbles to himself with a heavy sigh standing to dust off his knees.


He snaps his eyes up at Langdon leaning against the wall outside of the sunken room.


He listens hard to the sounds of a fight going on out of his sightline.


Langdon waves a hand and waits for a response impatiently.

"What's going on?"

"Dust Bunny's busy."

"Doing what?"

"Beating up your girlfriend. Legitimately, not like pillow fights and hair pulling."


"I don't know, she threw a dead raccoon at me though. Private party, invitation only."

He goes to see anyway, "Fuck."

"Get out," Violet snarls with her hand snagged in fabric of the dress Dusty wears, hauling her up and bring down her fist. Dusty makes a sound and spits blood all over Violet and kicks her hard between the legs.


"Leave," Violet hisses, crumpling and holding a hand to her groin before picking up a rock and throwing it at the girl stumbling to the other side of the room. Violet chases and throws a wild elbow into the soft flesh of her sister's breast.

A dead animal hits him so suddenly he can't even shut his mouth; he coughs and dips out of sight. Langdon pushes him towards the exit and follows him back into the basement without a word as to what's going on.

Someone's cooking. Violet sits up on the island with a bag of ice pressed against her eye and another inside her shirt against her chest. He says nothing and looks pointedly at the stove, walking over and lifting the lid on the large kitchen chef pot.


"I wouldn't."

He lets the lid drop and looks over an amusedly tilted shoulder at her tired face and swollen eye, "Why not?"

"Donner Party," she deadpans and turns her face away.

He laughs, "What?"


Her silence makes him open the lid to the pot and pick up a spoon, he lifts the solid contents with the long wooden utensil and skin slides off it. He drops the spoon and slams the lid back on the pot, "Whose hand is that?"


"Why are you cooking it?"

"I want the bones."


"I won the fight."

She turns with a smirk in place at the sight of his horrified expression.

It's late when she shuffles into the room with nothing but a pair of scrunched down socks and a long tee shirt, he tugs out his ear buds and eyes her carefully, noting the steady, heavy pump of blood thrumming to his groin, she looks sleepy and cute, soft and hazy because he's tired too.

"What are you doing?"

He asks when she climbs over the arm of the couch and covers him with her body, nuzzling into his chest and sliding her hands up under his shirt along his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like a sleepy cat, he feels her yawn. She puts her chin on his chest and peers up at him while she melds their pelvises together and cradles his hips with the insides of her hot from sleep and too many covers thighs.

"Don't play games."

She just smiles and kisses his throat fondly. He ruts up against her and traces the elastic of her panties over the soft swell of her ass, she grinds back and she sits up momentarily to take off her shirt and throw it somewhere over the top of the couch, his follows and she molds her torso into his.

He's about to let his fingers tread between her thighs when he goes still, she stops moving, he pushes her off and into the arm of the couch, her jaw cradled in his hand, "Open your mouth."

She does and he sighs in relief when she wiggles her tongue. He flops back and gives a mumbled apology; she brings her knees to her chest and sighs herself, "You really can't tell us apart can you?"

"Sorry, I just wanted to be sure."

"It's fine."

"Are you angry?"



She picks at the fabric of the couch before looking up at him through her lashes, "She doesn't like being on top."

"What?" He props himself up on his elbows and tries to coax her back on top of him with his shins, it works.

"She's not docile you know? She's just bratty. And selfish. I don't think Langdon really get's that," she tells him after she's pillowed her cheek into his chest. He laughs a little, bitterly. "Get's what? That she lets him fuck her like an animal?"

He runs fingers through her hair while they lay in relative silence for a few minutes until he hears her mumble, "That she's fucking with him."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you think I'm an idiot?"

She moves her head and looks up at his face.

"What? No."

"Me and her are the same girl, she's not an idiot."

"I know," he assures her, shifting uncomfortably, an effect of the argument they're starting.

"…you just don't get it."

"Get what?"

"She chose to be that way, it's not the way she really is. She chews off her own tongue so she doesn't have to talk, she lives down there so she can fuck and kill things in peace, and all the little dates she has with Langdon are just her source of amusement because she's manipulating him and you and to her it's fucking hilarious."

Her shoulders have gone rigid and she rises up on her elbows.


She closes her eyes and hangs her head, her hair obscuring her face, "She's a fucking island. And she likes it that way."

He cups her cheek and pushes her hair out of the way, "How do you know that?"

"I just do," she admits. Her eyes are shiny, and her cheeks are blotching and he doesn't understand what's made her so sad.

"You know everything about her?"

"Yeah, I do," she laughs with a watery cough and wipes her wet eyes on his chest when she lies back down on top of him.

"What's the deal with my fucking rib?"

Langdon asks, perched in a leather armchair on the other side of the coffee table, looking smug and interested in the all too tempting sight of Violet in just her modest underwear pressed up against his twin.

"Go away."

It's her that speaks.


Tate finds himself too confused to really smile at their regained privacy.

They're fighting again.

Punches and kicks and teeth and nails and rocks and dead animals. He tries to get them to stop.

"Mind your business, Tate. This has nothing to do with you."


Her distraction gets her a rock to cheek, "Leave, Tate!" She screams in pain and anger at him.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Whatever I fucking want!"

She gets Dusty pinned and breaks her arm, the sound made is all wounded animal and the girl who looks like Violet stares at him, betrayed, hurt, begging him to help.

"You're hurting her."

"Go away."

He finds himself relocated out of the crawlspace.

"You need to stop."

He turns to face his twin, "Stop what?"

"Telling her how to handle her problems." Langdon takes up post next to him at the window while Violet putts around the backyard with a shovel and treads grounds like she's looking for something she lost in the grass.

"You need to stop telling me how to handle mine."

"You need to stop."

His brother's tone is firm and he turns when the shovel outside parts the earth heavily, decisively and Violet starts digging, "Don't tell me what to do!"

Langdon drops his hand in mid-movement of reaching out to touch him, the gesture seems like one meant to be comforting, but he's too angry to accept any comfort from the boy with his face.

Something forms on his twin's face that looks like defeat tinged with sadness and he can only glance at it on an angle, too annoyed and confused to stare at it full on.

"Leave it alone," Langdon sighs.

"Why should I?" He turns and faces the other boy, his shoulders set hard in challenge.

"Because Dusty is hers."

But it's impossible for him to just leave the issue alone. Made impossible by how he's spent the last few hours watching her dig a grave, throw something in it, and bury it. She comes in, banging her dirty boots off before she comes into the freshly mopped kitchen and deciding instead to take them off all together.

He watches her sit down outside the door and roll up her dirty jeans into sloppy cuffs, there's brown crusts of blood all over them.

"What did you do?"

"What needed to be done."

"Where is she?"


She stalks passed him banging her shoulder against his bicep hard.

He walks outside, stares at her dirty boots, throws one across the clean kitchen floor, spraying dirt everywhere, she stops for a long moment, her shoulders stiff and bunched and her hands fisting, she doesn't turn, she says nothing, she walks out.

He picks up her shovel on the ground next to the gazebo and starts digging.

She's stuck. Smothering uncomfortably.

If she could sigh, she would.

It's not ideal.

It's not fair.

She's going to miss both boys and her progenitor.

Maybe the boy with black eyes is right; eventually they'll get sick of them, inside. One day. Some day.

The packed earth breathes like a person does and she's dying, again, for the last time for an uncertain amount of time to come.

This time there won't be a body left behind.

He finds her in the master bedroom, lounging quietly, lying on her stomach, legs up and ankles crossed, reading some glossy paged magazine and stopping to peel back a scented perfume stripped page and cringing at the smell of some overpriced cologne.

"Where'd she go?"

She doesn't even pretend to not know he's talking about her twin, or the grave in the back yard she was supposed to be in when he dug it up. The grave where all he found was an empty tarp and the striped pelt of a missing neighborhood stray.

"Back where she fucking belongs."


She tosses the magazine off the bed to the floor with a flick of her wrist and swings up, hangs her legs over the edge and runs her toes over the carpet.

"She's a part of me. And for awhile I didn't want her to be, so I left her in the crawlspace and let her do what she wanted. She doesn't get a choice; I do because she's just a thing with my face. She's something I made."

"And she didn't want to go back," he says with the accusation plain in his tone.

She scowls up at him before pushing up and standing.

"It's not about what she wanted or didn't want. Can a toaster want to get hot and make breakfast? No. You put bread in and push down the thing and it makes toast, sometimes it breaks and it can't make toast anymore. It isn't about what it wants to do or chooses to do."

His hands clench into fists, "She isn't a toaster!"

Her head jerks back like he's hit her and her expression turns confused, "…why are you pissed off?"

"She didn't deserve that, Violet."

There's a moment of absolute silence as the words hang between them until she crosses her arms and cocks a hip, "Langdon talks about me toting your balls around but you know what, he is your balls. God!"

"You're being a bitch."

"Why do you care so much about it? You miss her or something?"


His silence is answer enough, for both of them, he does miss the tangled hair girl who gives him dead things to try and cheer him up.

"You do."

"It's just…fuck. I just…," He runs shaky hands and tight fingers through her hair and pulls in brief frustration.

"She's me except missing everything besides the part of me that wishes I could go away and not need anybody, the part of me that wants to use people."


Her forehead furrows like she's upset and hurt but it smoothes out in the wake of her indignation and irritation, "You miss her because she made you think she was sweet and nice and liked you and wanted to make you feel better whenever I made you feel bad, you miss her because you don't know she was laughing about it to herself, because you think you know me as well as I do."

"Shut the fuck up," he takes a step back because the alternative is one closer.

"Shut the fuck up?" She crows amused.

"Yeah, shut the fuck up." He makes every word a hard verbal punch.

He feels a wave of resentment for her when she raises a brow and turns hard, her hair whipping out and stalks to the desk upending a cup of office supplies and making a sound of irritation before throwing open drawers.

As confused as he is he stands and waits idly looking at the door and trying to decide whether to storm out before she starts yelling again because he just isn't in the mood to fight anymore.

When she turns it's with a pair of scissors in her hand and he's stuck standing in dumb unbelieving shock when her mouth open and her tongue waves out and she bows her head and puts it between the open edges of the scissors, her hair obscures the hard snip but her scream is inhuman and there's blood pouring down, staining the white carpet of the room.

She tugs at the scissors and drops them; they bounce and paint long lines of red where they fall.

Her lips and chin and throat are a mess and her face is twisted in pain and anger and wet tears. She bends and reaches under her skirt and steps out of her underwear walking to him with them hanging off her bloody fingers. Her tongue hits him first and then her panties and she disappears.

He leaves them where they fall and takes off out of the room, down the stairs, flinging open the basement door and sliding his way through the crawlspace as fast as he physical can. Something dead and furry his him in the chest as he rounds the corner, and another one follows flying at him as he drops down into the sunken room, he weaves and it skids through the dirt.

She keeps throwing dead things at him until he's shackling her arms with his hands and pushing her down into the dirt, he scowls down at her bloody face and she stares at him for a long time until she spits, he doesn't even flinch, just wipes it off with the back of his hand before wrapping her hair around his hand and forcing her head back.

Her face softens and she takes a breath hands sliding up under his shirt, palms flat against his abdomen and chest and the backs of his shoulders and her eyes stay hard and cold and mean even though she smiles the same way he's seen Dusty smile. She gurgles a cooing noise up at him and presses a bloody kiss to the inside of his wrist.

"Are you trying to prove something?"

She smiles widely and nods enthusiastically, a perfect mimic of an expressive gesture he's seen before.

Something tells him it isn't an imitation, it's the original, Dusty was just the reflection, and the girl under him is the one she learned it all from. The one she stole it from.

"I never liked her better," he assures her.

She rolls her eyes and he tightens his grip on her hair.

"But I'm angry you let her do that. You let me feel bad for her and now you want to act like her."

His eyes narrow when she nods. But he lets a smile spread over his face, slow and makes his expression as sweet and open as he can because he can fake sympathy and kindness as well as she can.

"You want to show me that side of you?"

She nods.

"Okay." He rubs her sore scalp with his fingers, she presses into them. "You be Dusty, I'll be Langdon and we'll fuck."

Her hips arch up insistently against his and she mewls wetly, a bubble of blood popping between her lips. He presses them back into the dirt with his other hand.

"Then turn over. Hands and knees."

Her breathing stills and her gaze glazes over with anger, her lips press into one thin white line.

"No? I thought Dusty was the side of you that wanted to get fucked like some mindless animal in the dirt."

She shifts and he raises up on his knees, letting go of her hair and watches her pull her skirt up around her hips and tilt her ass up, chest pressed into the dirt, arms stretched out in front of her, her face pressed onto one while she thrusts back at him.

"I said hands and knees." He smirks at expression she throws over her shoulder at him. He leans over and licks a wet hot line behind her ear and relishes the shiver of body.

"No. Don't look back at me like that either, Dusty doesn't glare at Langdon, she just lets him fuck her like she's some brainless thing, like his dick is the toy she gets to play with if she's a good girl."

She whines but pulls her arms under her and presses up on her palms, head bowed and her spine a straight line from neck to pelvis which is still pushed back and up in taut readiness.

He undoes his belt and unzips his pants with unnecessary slowness just to better take in the sight and let his fingers trail down between her legs to run his fingers through the flood of hot wetness dripping out of her flushed, waiting body in slow strings, into the dirt between her knees.

For the first time in all the times he's pressed inside her body he doesn't sink in slow or soft, she keens loud and low, surprised, already sore despite her wetness and want from his vicious intrusion. Her body clenches hard like it can squeeze him out, he groans and stays buried until she squirms.

"Don't get greedy," he tells her. She makes a sound that's more Violet than Dusty, he puts his palm against her bottom with a small tap before swinging back his hand and smacking.

Her head whips around fast in absolute disbelief, he raises a deliberate brow and pulls out, completely and she whines before schooling her features and blinking away her agitation, making her eyes wide and doe-like. He smiles and spanks her again, all she does is wince and bite her lip before opening her eyes and pouting, hiding how angry she is. When she hangs her head in submission he pushes in again and rocks against her.

He holds her hips in his palms and presses his fingers into her skin hard, he hopes she bruises, hopes the marks last for a long time, hopes he can trace their outline with his tongue the next time she decides to let him fuck her. He pulls back slowly and tugs her back onto him, over and over again until the air in the musty crawlspace smells more like sex and sweat than dust and rot.

Her body grasps at him wet and welcoming and the hard slap of their damp skin up against each other makes his cock throb, he thrusts hard and his balls slap into the underside of his cock over and over and he hopes when she gets up off the ground she won't be able to walk straight.

She arches like a cat, shifts her knees, makes the space between them wider, gasping with a hitch when he rolls his pelvis up while he pumps in and out, slowly because as much as he wants to pretend to be his brother fucking Dusty he's well aware of how much different the two girls are, Dusty may care more about ripping open Langdon's chest when he's finished fucking her than cumming but Violet is less accommodating.

He's also not a selfish asshole like his twin, he rocks up when he's buried all the way inside and she rubs back into him, jerky and without rhythm and he savors the feel of her orgasm for a moment before fucking her hard enough that he can barely remember to breath.

He fills her up with sticky hot heat and slumps down, running his mouth over the bumps of her spine as his hands run up her sides under her shirt.

She drops onto her elbows and a sucks in lungfuls of air hard and fast while he slips out and flops onto the floor.

He sighs and closes his eyes feeling a sharp heavy weight not a second later on his sternum, he feels her straddle him and hit him until blood mists up from his broken chest with every hard hit of the rock in her hands against his bruised and beaten flesh, he can't breathe suddenly, his mouth works for air but spots cloud his vision and it's not completely black when her hands are tearing him open.

He's not quite dead when she breaks his ribcage and yanks out one long curved strip of white, triumphant. He wakes up to his own face looming over him.

"Did you forget the part where unless I kill her first afterwards she kills me?"

"Why are you here?"

He rubs his chest, it's whole but there's a lingering soreness of phantom pain left behind, he winces. Langdon shrugs and straightens, "I was in the basement when she came out and she told me where she left you."

"How'd she look?"

Another shrug and a pause to light a smoke, Langdon makes a flippant hand gesture, "Um, recently fucked?"

"I meant was she pissed off."

"Oh," his brother takes a long drag and stares at the burning tip of the cigarette while he exhales slowly examining the orange glow, "No."

"Dusty's gone."

"I know."

"Did you know?"

"Yeah. That's why I told you to leave it alone."


Langdon sits down next to him Indian style and props his chin on his fist with a far away stare, "I just did, I don't know. It's just like us, you know? Eventually you're going to eat me or whatever, because you can be me but I can't be you."



"Thinking that hard makes you look ugly, and your face will stay all wrinkly like that if you keep doing it."

Tender fingertips trace the furrows of his brow, trying to smooth them out.


"I know what will make you feel better," Langdon tells him, his voice like a rolling rumble of thunder, a ribbon around his spine.

"What," he growls back at his twin, angry that his cock just fucking twitched at the insinuation in his brother's voice.

"Killing something. Fucking something," Langdon grins and looks at him with his brow lowered the slightest bit, "Both."

"Are you offering?"

His brother laughs. Tate grinds his teeth together.

"You only managed to kill me once and that was because you hid and surprised me," and with a conspiratorial whisper as if someone might actually hear them all the way up in the attic, "Not exactly sporting."

"What if I wanted to fuck you?" He tosses out like a dare.

Langdon blinks rapidly surprised, "…"

"What's the problem?" Tate teases, feeling more like someone else, more like his brother than he's ever really wanted to be.

His twin's eyes shine like mirrors, bleeding black and glossy as they shift like secrets and smoke, "Ain't no problem, I just don't need you taking all that frustration of yours out on my ass."

"What if I promised to be gentle?"

"Only if there's rose petals scattered across the bed and a candlelight dinner."

"I'm being serious."

Mostly because the last few weeks have been filled with solitary masturbatory bouts in the attic filled with the idea of just how deserved it would be for him to actually fuck Langdon, return payment on all the little jibes about not having a backbone, all the attention he's stolen from his girl.

Langdon shrugs flippantly and grins, slowly, "Okay."

"Really?" Tate knows Langdon doesn't actually believe he'll do it.

"Yeah, but you have to do something for me."


"Well…," he starts dragging the vowel of the word between his teeth, stretching it, "Since you pissed Violet off it's not like I can go to her for a blowjob now can I?"


He feels his face go slack and unbelieving, behind his jeans his cock twitch again and he frowns at the idea feeling like he's been one upped. Langdon scowls at him and his heavy silence.

"You are such an inconsiderate little shit."

"Bullshit," Tate spits.

"I offer up my virgin ass for your sodomistic experimentational pleasure and you won't even blow me. No you're not an inconsiderate fuck you're just a selfish lay."

"Fine," Tate clenches his fists.

"Good. Now?" His twin suggest with a smile splitting his face.


"I'll pencil 'get pounded' into my busy social schedule."

Tate shakes his head and coughs loudly when Langdon turns to go.


"I'll fuck you later, I'll blow you now."

"One thing," Langdon says holding up a hand.


His twin grins viciously before striding over and closes the space between them until he's back up against the wall and Langdon's dropping his head to hiss in his ear, "If this is a joke and you bite my dick off I'm going to tie you to a chair and superglue your eyelids open so you can watch what I do to her. I'll fuck her every way I can think of. Every. Single. Way."

For once the threat doesn't chill him; it burns across his nerves, hot and sharp. Later. He pay Langdon back for it later when he's got him on his knees and knees with his ass in the air. Later. For now all he does is pull and snap open the leather clasp of Langdon's belt and crouch down between his brother's hips and the wall.

He tugs on Langdon's cock until he's hard and weeping and there's a steady, repetitive hitch to every breath his twin takes in.

Tate rolls his eyes, finding the whole thing a bit of a nuisance rather than something repulsive. It's a cock, technically it's his cock, and really with all the things he's done with Langdon and is going to do it's not that big of leap from just touching it and rubbing his own against it, to putting it in his mouth.

He licks sloppily and wonders if it feels as different as he imagines it must be from the times when Langdon's had Violet's mouth on him.

Sucking hard on the wet head of his brother's dick he flicks and rubs at the heavy ridge of it with his tongue.

He widens his jaw and lets the saltiness of precum sit on top of his tongue as he moves his head forward.

"You have to swallow; otherwise you'll gag," Langdon huffs out, forearms braced against the wall while his hips start moving in shallow jerky thrusts.

He feels the gentle nudge against the back of his throat and he makes a warning sound to belay any movement on Langdon's part, it's not one of his better ideas since the feel of him humming makes Langdon moan lowly and shove his dick down his throat without much warning or intention to do so.

Tate barely manages to breathe let alone suck properly, he manages and Langdon starts moving, rocking into his mouth.

He wiggles his tongue around, not quite sure what else to do with it and he feels the twitch of almost orgasm against his cheeks, he hums again and pulls back from the base to finish Langdon with his hand, but then he feels the harsh grip and tug of fingers pulling his hair and the growl building in his twin's chest.

Tate knows he just about snarls when he's choking on cock and Langdon coming in his mouth, he pulls off once the fingers in his hair go slack.

The taste isn't new but it's a mouthful of it, bitter and salty and it's not exactly something he needs or wants a mouthful of, he tries to swallow but his throat barely cooperates and he coughs, spraying it back out over Langdon's going soft hard-on.

He hears him chuckle.

"You've got a little…"

Tate resists the urge to punch his brother in the dick.

"Thanks for the warning," he grumbles wiping his mouth on his arm.

"I did warn you!"

"What'd you do tap in out in morse code on top of my head?"

"I grunted."

Langdon tries to look innocent but it's something much more impish that lingers in his eyes instead. He watches while he licks his lips and savors the flavor.

"Later," he tells his twin before leaving the attic.

"Looking forward to it."

Later comes day and half afterwards. They make-out sloppily on the bed because Langdon all but insists that if he's going to walk around with a sore ass he won't also have sore knees from the floor to deal with. His twin nips at his mouth and goads him with a, "thought you wanted to fuck me," while he strips them out of their shirts.

Despite how stupid it is Langdon puts up a brief fake struggle and then kneels carefully before wiggling at him. It's only when his twin starts talking again that he realizes he's staring.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Tate shakes his head and tugs at his brother's belt. A rumble of laughter goes through the boy under him, "Are you checking out my ass?"

"Technically it's my ass."

Langdon looks over his shoulder at him and smirks, "You have a very nice ass, come on. Lube up."

Tate fumbles with his belt and raises an eyebrow, "I can't just spit?"

"No. Jesus Christ, you don't have lube?" Langdon flops dramatically onto the mattress and rolls over onto his back. Tate leans back and perches on the edges, toeing off his sneakers and unlaces Langdon's, tossing them across the room.

"No," he shrugs.



"Well go get some," Langdon rolls his head around on his shoulders and gives him a look like he's an idiot.


"Check the nightstand."

He reaches over and yanks open the drawer, he checks the one on the other side of the bed. There's nothing even vaguely sexual in either, "There's nothing."

Langdon puts his arms behind his head and crosses his ankles, Tate watches the muscles play under his skin, rapt by it, "What else works as lube?"

"You're not using Crisco," Langdon tells him.

His own nose wrinkles up and Langdon frowns at him before Tate assures him, "I wasn't."

"Just making sure."


"Is absorbed by skin."


"Because I've always wanted my ass to smell like a tropical waterfall or a floral sunburst."

"What's that stuff you put on cuts?"

"The stuff in the yellow tube?"


Ointment is good, slick. Perfect.

"Alright," Langdon nods.

"Where is it?"

"First aid kit? Bathroom? Under the kitchen sink? It comes in little packets."

He leaves to find it and when he comes back it's to his brother lounging nude on the large bed, waiting, a hand wrapped loosely around his already angry looking erection.

His own clothes can't get off of his body fast enough.

Langdon's hands are callused and rough and slippery over his while they help coat his cock, he watches their fingers slide over each other and he has to circle the base of himself hard to keep from coming at the languid stroking alone.

And then he's pushing his brother back, shoving hard and it's nothing like it is when he's with Violet, playful or just playing to her own depraved little perversities, like in the basement or in their bedroom, pretending to be someone else while she fucks him, there's no give to the body he's got his hands on, he doesn't have to worry about hurting Langdon, not really.

His brother grins and pushes back for a moment and makes Tate work for it. Langdon won't just roll over, not unless his brother asks, and Tate hates hates hates asking. Boys with backbone don't ask for anything.

It takes him awhile but he finally gets his twin to his knees, and there's the sweat and ragged breathing and split lips and swelling eyelids that comes from horseplay being used for foreplay.

There's something about the look of his own broad shoulders bunched together and the long length of a back identical to his that makes his lungs tight, he feels powerful, fucked up, his lips twist up in a little snarl of a grin at having Langdon compliment and silent for once.

It feels heady, he sighs and slides his fingers down the cleft of his brother's ass, thinking of the way Violet grabs his when he's pounding into her, her nails digging in or her feet on the back of his thighs her heels digging in, holding on.

He's probing carefully, pushing in a slick finger just one knuckle deep and feeling his dick throb at the knowledge that it's going to be in the same place, soon. Langdon presses back with a grunt.

The sound is obscene when his body tries to hold on to the digit and the wet sucking of lubed skin squelches, he works Langdon up to three fingers before asking if it hurts.

His twin groans angrily in response, impatient or in pain, it doesn't really matter much, because he's spreading him and nudging him with the blunt head of his cock, smothering a low moan by biting his lips shut as he has to work his way in.

He lets loose a strangled mewl at just how tight the ring of muscles holds onto the head of his cock and he huffs in exertion when he gets even that small bit inside. It seems like it takes forever to even get in half-way, and a small eternity before he's all the way in and Langdon's heavy breathing is about as loud as a woman giving birth.

"Fuck," he hears him breathe.


"My arms hurt," Langdon grumbles.

"Really? Thought something else would be hurting by now."

His brother pointedly ignores the jibe.

"Fuck, how do girls stay like this for so long? And it does hurt, not bad but different."


"What's that thing guys have that feels good when something presses on it?"


"Yeah, that's it. Can you jerk me off or something, I'd do it myself but, you know, my arms hurt."

He reaches and tugs hard enough for Langdon to let out a noise close but not quite a squeak, he pulls his hips back while he strokes his brother's cock, his shoulder burning from the strain twisting his arm causes.

The sound is just as obscene as before, erotic, it makes his spine melt. He's pulling out, easily and sliding back in, easier than before, and Langdon grips him sweetly, clenching with a wicked little laugh.

"Fuck," he groans

"Like that?" His twin asks, doing it again.


Langdon starts gripping his insides in rapid clutching flutters, tight and hot. Like a fist tightening around his dick only better.

"I crushing your head, I'm crushing your head!"

Tate rolls his eyes at the joke. His lips quirk up a little but he makes his tone a surly grumble as he rocks up further into his brother and tugs at his cock and cradles his hip with his free hand, "Gonna bash your's in if you don't shut up."

He barely registers the fact that Langdon's spilling into his hand and speaking to him, "Hurry up."

"Almost, promise," he rasps before slicking his tongue over the wild beat of Langdon's pulse. He doesn't like his brother's tone and he bites down on his shoulder, hard and sucks at the crenulations he leaves behind from his teeth.

"You remember what you said in the attic?"

"I don't remember half of what I say, remind me."

Tate laughs and then goes silent with a heavy inhale before throwing all his weight behind his next thrust, breaking the previously gentle easy rocking.

"Fuck. Ow."

Langdon sounds more amused than pissed off.

"What you said about Violet."

His twin stills, "…"

"Guess I grew a spine or something, I don't know, because the idea of you even trying to fuck her in whatever way you think up really fucking pisses me off. Remember now?"

"Shit," Langdon groans before he hisses and grunts loudly at the heavy thrust he's on the receiving end on.

"You touch her and I'll fuck you every way I can think of. I'll fuck you until you bleed. I'll pull all your teeth out so I don't have to worry about you biting me when I feel like fucking your mouth."

He's pushing in and pulling out recklessly, hard and furious.


"Understand?" He asks, punctuating with a brutal slap of his hips so forceful his hair flails wetly into his face.


"…," he wants to say 'good' but he can barely breathe and Langdon's shifting under him moving one arms low to start working at himself because all the fury in the room, all the rough treatment, has got him hard again.

His orgasm is crackling through his bones, melting the marrow in his them until they're rubber-bands, he ruts idly while he pulses hotly into his brother and slumps sloppily over his back when he's done.

Langdon spurts onto the bedspread and his arm gives out under their combined weight, minutes later he mumbles half into the pillow, half into his arm, "Get off, you're heavy."

They part and lie side by side staring up at the ceiling, trying to cool down and breathe evenly.

"Thanks," Tate nudges him softly.

"No problem, leave the cash on the nightstand on your way out."

"…," he smirks, he really can't help it.

"You're adorable when you get all protective and shit."

"I meant every word."

He feels Langdon shrug and he contemplates strangling him for his flippancy.

"You look like shit."

Violet drops down to sit next to a contemplative Langdon on the porch steps. She still smells like the earth and there is still dirt caked under her nails from her private burial ceremony out back. The weird part is it's been over a month since Dusty's death. Maybe she misses her double more than she'd like to let on.

And just for the record, he does, look like shit that is. There are circles etched beneath both eyes and his cheeks look hollowed. His natural tan has been sapped, leaving him borderline pale, and without even the barest hint of a smirk, his face looks all wrong.

Langdon shrugs with both knees pulled up to his chest, his arms folded over them as an acting pillow, cheek tilted against one bicep. "Just hungry."

"Moira made some sandwiches for lunch earlier, want one?" She makes to get up, obviously in an uncharacteristically good mood, but Langdon reaches out and tugs her back down onto the cement. Good mood gone, Violet's face clouds over despite the listless hand that's waving off her distress.

"Not that kind of hungry."

She softens. "Oh."


Hands cupping her shins, Violet turns to face the boy with the stolen face and tilts her head toward the front door. "Plenty of angst in there for you to leech. In fact, I think I heard Hayden throwing a bitch fit on my way out here."

Langdon wheezes out a laugh, but shakes his head, sitting up a bit to prop his face in the curve of his palm. "Nah. It's just not the same."

Violet scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Not only do you eat everybody's bad mood, but now you're getting picky about whose pain and torment you want to suckle? Jesus, Langdon."

There's humor in her voice and he appreciates it, reaching out to fasten a twine of ash blonde behind the shell of her ear, swatting at an intrusive bee that hovers above their heads.

"I know, I know. And here I thought Tate was the delicate flower in this melodrama."

"You're in love with him, aren't you?"

Langdon starts at the sudden change in topic, but the tension rolls from his frame easily and a moment later he's lounging back against the wood.

"What?" He knows that she knows he knows what she's talking about but it'd be easier if they just skipped this landmine altogether.

"Langdon." Her tone bears no argument."

"Aww, is someone jealous?"

That gets him a well deserved punch to the shoulder and, sighing in defeat, he pushes a hand through his hair, letting slip a self-deprecating laugh. "What can I say? I'm a narcissist."

"Yeah, no shit," she grins, content to drop the subject then and there, satisfied that he's at least admitted it to more than just himself now.

They fall into an easy silence then, both kids laying back under the awning to trace shapes in the clouds and listen to the frogs croaking from the next yard over in the mid-evening breeze.

Langdon fingers a hole in the side seam of his sweater and idly wonders what Tate's aversion to short sleeves was. Yeah, he cut back when he was alive, but if he had no qualms about mowing down half his homeroom class, he probably wasn't worried what other people would say if they saw the lines on his wrists.

When the sun's dipped down beneath the house across the street and the streetlights flicker awake, Langdon turns over onto his side, feeling sluggish and something akin to dehydration.

"He sure can be a little shit sometimes though."

"Huh?" Violet blinks out of whatever she'd been ruminating on and turns her neck towards Langdon's voice.


"Ugh, yeah. You have no idea."

"Oh believe me, I do." Langdon smirks, folding both hands under his temple.

She checks her wrist like she's curious as to the time, but then settles back against the boards, ready for story time.

"Back when he died and made me, - or whatever the fuck happened - those first few years, he fucking tormented his mom. I'm talking every day. He'd stand at the edge of her bed at night and disappear only when she'd woken up, shrieked, and fumbled for a lamp. He'd toss around the furniture and smash every bottle of booze she brought home. People think she sold the place because of insufficient funds, but that's bullshit. Tate drove her out. He was just so angry and nothing I said ever helped. He wanted to die, that's why he shot up his school. He couldn't stand seeing the way she treated Adelaide anymore. Couldn't live with the fact that his mother had had Beau killed or that she'd driven off his dad. But worst of all he couldn't deal with the knowledge that she was part of him. He said he knew he'd never be good because of her. So when the SWAT team showed up and tried to peacefully coax him out of the room, he'd pulled a gun on them just to be sure that he'd never see the outside of those four walls."

Violet listens quietly to the whole story, her hair sprawled out in a halo beneath her head, as Langdon pauses to cough into his fist.

"Anyway, yeah. When, instead of being rid of that righteous bitch forever, he just wakes up in the basement with me and a splitting headache, trapped forever under the same roof as her, he fucking lost it. If she got a dog or something, he'd have it skinned and spread out under her sheets in less than a week. If she ever brought home some young, dumb piece of ass and they were fucking, he'd flip on all the lights and turn over the mattress. It was insanity..."

He trails off there without really finishing his recount of what her psycho had been like back in the beginning, thinking that his angst then, so sharp and raw, had been a lot like his fights with Violet used to feel.

She's finally tamed Tate in a way Langdon would never be able to calm him. Shame. He'd tried. Really, he had. Maybe he just didn't have the right parts or maybe Tate really did see his soulmate in Violet.

When it's apparent Langdon's done reminiscing for now, Violet gets up, but not before drawing back and slapping the blonde hard enough across the face to have his neck aching from the recoil.

His eyes slide black for a beat. "Hey thanks," he grins affectionately, to which Violet only smiles and shrugs and walks back inside, leaving Langdon alone once more to ponder life and death and whether or not either really applied to him.

After a night of heavy drinking, Tate wakes with a coarse groan, dragged into consciousness by thirst. The roof of his mouth is dry as he bites caked drool from his lips, the lingering taste of rum and tequila still bitter against his tongue. Travis and Hayden had reeled him into a drinking game that lasted half the night and resulted in the unwelcoming throb of a serious hangover.

His eyes slowly peel open and upon registering the warmth pressed against his back, Tate rolls to face his brother who is still snoring softly. He doesn't remember crawling into bed with Langdon, but everything past their second round of Power Hour was reduced to a hazy impression at best.

Regardless, lacking the motivation let to heft himself out of bed and down the stairs for a cup of water just yet, Tate settles back into the mattress, slipping one hand under the pillow to rest his cheek upon. He lets his eyes greedily survey Langdon's stolen face, always somewhat surprised by how deceivingly gentle his brother looks in sleep - no taunting grins or ink-drowned eyes.

He wonders if it's strange to find Langdon beautiful like this, but decides not to dwell on the worrying thought seeing as it's got to be the least troubling aspect of this entire situation. It's a moot point, but even so, he still sees a natural attractiveness in his brother that he has never found in himself.

Langdon's lashes are full and dark where they rest high against his cheekbones and his eyelids look soft like silk. The line of his nose is straight and narrow and his lips are parted just slightly, the bowed curves of them accentuated by his gentle pout.

Tate reaches out to curiously trace them with the pad of his thumb, subconsciously wetting his own, dragging two fingers over the swell of his brother's lower lip and watching it bounce back into place. His gaze then follows the natural slant of Langdon's neck, the round of his shoulder, and the gentle taper of his torso. He's bare from the waist up but with the blankets rucked up to his ribs, it's anyone's guess as to whether or not he'd stripped down completely before retiring for the night.

He remembers what Langdon had said a month ago, about how Tate was going to eat him eventually. Even though he hadn't thought about it up until that point, somehow he's already privy to the idea that he will, that Langdon can't be around forever, not if he's ever going to get Violet back. It's a painful thing, admitting to himself that he'd choose a girl over someone he's spent two decades with, but honestly, it's an easy choice. He's looking for someone to make him whole and Langdon is pretty much the antithesis of that. Langdon's a vital part, a part that Violet craves, a part that he's starting to miss. But that doesn't mean he's not going to mourn the bastard. It's going to be strange without him, like losing a limb, when in reality he'd kind of be getting one back.

Lost in meandering contemplation for a short while, when Tate lifts his gaze back to his brother's face, Langdon's eyes are open and fixed on him. Tate blinks sleepily and flexes his jaw, startled by what he sees reflected in those identical black orbs. It's an expression he's never seen his twin wear, not even when he knew Tate was going to break his nose, or worse. Underneath the lingering sleepiness there is fear. An open child-like fear, the kind you'd see on the face of a kid that had been called downstairs for a discussion about their report card, the kind you'd see on a puppy after being scolded and awaiting punishment. It's palpable and Tate has to lower his eyes when he reads it. His heart drags against his chest at the sight and it suddenly feels as though his ribs want to close in on themselves.

But it's fleeting and when he looks back, it's gone, replaced by a small smile and crow's feet.

"Mm, morning," Langdon mumbles, still too sluggish for sass, gathering the blankets in his fist and pulling them over his shoulder, snuggling close to his brother, forehead bowing against the bridge of Tate's nose, "what time is it?"

"I dunno," Tate replies, glancing about the room for a clock. The one settled on the opposite end table just blinks 88:88 and he wonders if the power's gone out again, remembers then that he's still thirsty.

Langdon's lashes flutter against the edge of his nose and he can almost hear the other boy's mind churning awake.

They lie there silently for a few more minutes but then something catches Tate's attention and he turns his face towards the open door, spots Violet standing there quietly and watching them with an unreadable expression. Tate holds her gaze, but when Langdon's hand reaches out and curls around his bicep, Violet's eyes dart to the movement and she disappears off to the right, headed downstairs for a smoke or into the basement to brood in Dusty's old stomping grounds.

And all at once he's swallowed by the looming inevitability of Langdon's death, or murder, or whatever the hell you could call it, and in a fit of denial, inches out of his brother's drowsy hold. He pushes up onto his feet and pads out of the room after Violet, willing himself not to pause under the door frame and glance back at his twin curled under the sheets, looking more vulnerable and human than he'd seen him in the two decades they'd been together.

Langdon's death falls on a Wednesday.

It's still early. The sun's threatening to rise, but the sky's still set a soft indigo-blue; the color could fool you for dusk. There's dew on the lawn surrounding Dusty's grave out back. The air is crisp around the two boys.

They're dressed in matching sweaters and their twin noses have been chapped pink by the cold.

"Let's just get this over with," Langdon whines, huddled, breathing into his sleeve. "It's fucking freezing out here."

Tate shudders at the reminder that their jumpers are threadbare and tightens his grip on the handle of a shovel that's been seeing too much action lately. He's unsteady on his feet, switching his weight from side to side while looking everywhere that isn't his brother.

He didn't invite Langdon out here this morning, he was content to continue putting off this inevitable, but when he woke up early with a warm Violet draped over his chest, chewing her cheek in her sleep, he knew it was time. Time to be some semblance of whole once more.

Langdon was sitting at the bottom of the stairs when he turned into the hall. He must have known too.

They could question what really got them up and out into the cold so early, whether it was the house or Violet's meddling or simply Tate's realization that enough was enough, but it didn't really matter. Because in a few minutes there would only be one blonde boy walking back into Murder House for breakfast. In a few minutes Tate would be alone.

"Fine," Tate sighs, absently pushing the shovel into the dirt, uplifting a wedge of grass. He still can't meet his brother's gaze. There are tears already pricking at his eyes; it's bullshit.

Langdon must see them because he pulls away from his view of the empty street and knocks against Tate's shoulder.

"It's alright," he says seriously, reaching out with one hand to poke at the left side of his twin's chest. "I'll always be with you, in here."

Tate rolls his eyes and pushes out a breath. "Fuck off."

The heavy mood lightens. Langdon's smiling, showing acres of teeth.

"Don't get sappy on me now." He wipes at a tear that streaks down Tate's cheek, pops his finger into his mouth to suck at the salted taste.

More tears fall, but really, what else is new with him? He groans through them and steps back, forcing himself calm and gesturing to the shovel.

"So, how's this gonna work?"

Langdon eyes the tool suspiciously. "Fuck if I know. Didn't Violet just kill Dusty and bury her? We could do that?"

"Yeah..., I guess so."

"Yeah," Langdon repeats slowly.

But neither of them make to move, just stand there with arms limp at their sides, trapped into a sharp silence. This is really it. The end of two decades together.


"It just makes me feel like a dead hamster. Getting buried."

From now on Tate will be truly responsible for his actions. He won't be able to slink out from under the guilt of them. There won't be another of himself to blame.

As though he'd been listening in on this internal discovery, Langdon wets his lips and drags a hand through his tangled curls. "I'll still be up there, you know," he says, pointing at his own temple for reference. "Can't get rid of me this easily." There's victory in his voice, but it's hollow. You can't share blankets and stories with a voice inside your head.

The whole happening feels all wrong. Not like them; it's tense and awkward. Final declarations of love and forgiveness feel expected. The three words sit heavy in their mouths.

But Langdon trades them in, pulls the shovel out of Tate's loose grip and drinks in one last look of his favorite same face before raising back the metal spade.

Guys about to die deserve a last meal at the very least.

"Goodbye, brother," Langdon grins, wondering if Tate will start sporting his too-wide smile in tribute, and swiftly buries the edge of the rusted metal into the side of his brother's throat, just below his jaw.

There's something about seeing something that looks like him dead that makes it easier to go away, he can fantasize at least that it's him lying there instead of Tate. That he's a ghost and the body gushing all over the grass is a real corpse that will rot and get eaten by vermin and crawling things.

His gauntness fades and he can imagine his face is less angles, now that he isn't so hungry, his eyelids don't feel like they have marbles taped to the tops of them anymore and there's the familiar satisfaction that sinks into his gut like warm stew from hearing his brother's death rattle.

In the end it's surprisingly easy, like walking away, back to his room, or prison, but today he starts to think it's really more like a welcome reprieve.

When Tate wakes up he's alone, crumpled on the lawn. His pants are smudged with grass stains from when he fell and his back is damp, but rather than push onto his feet and head back inside, he folds both arms behind his head and glances about the empty yard. Even though Langdon could easily be inside watching tv or trying to bone Violet, Tate knows that he isn't, that he's gone, put back where he belongs.

It's dusk outside when he goes to see her, the only person he really can go and see now. The only person who listens to him, the only person he's close to having as his own.

"What's the deal with the rib?"

"Constance ever make you read the Bible?"

"Got kicked out of Sunday school," his mouth twitches in a small half-smile.

"You know the story where they take the rib out of Adam while he's asleep and make Eve with it?"

He nods, understanding that that's all there is to it, there's no big mystery or explanation just the existence of some strange little habit belonging to something that's dead now.


"I guess sometimes you just fixate on little things like that and then make them your own thing," she sighs, bowing her head and taking a weak drag of her cigarette before blowing it out onto her stocking covered knees and peeking at him through her hair, "How are you?"

"I'm fine, you?" He leans back and stretches a little while she agrees with a nod, "Yeah, I'm fine. I feel different."

"Me too."

"I feel like I did when we first moved in, like I did back in Boston."

"Do you think we'll be okay?"


"It's been Me and Langdon for a long time. I'm just worried."

He watches her chew her bottom lip and look up at the sky, it's the color of a bruise now.

"About what?"

"That you won't want me, that you'll want him and me instead of just me and then it's going to be the three of us fighting with each other over who wants who when." It's easy to be honest now, he's too tired to tell lies.

She's still looking at the sky, "Langdon's just one part, that's it, he can't ever be more than that, he can't ever become you. Sometimes it was easier when I was so angry at you to go and be with him for a little while instead, but then it was always you that mattered."

"Do you feel different?"

"Yeah, a little. I think about things and can't really wrap my head around why I needed to make things so complicated when I was trying to hurt you, now all of that just looks pointless, too much work."


She frowns and grins mockingly countering with a drawled, "Relaxed."

"Do you think it'll be different now?"


He raises an eyebrow suggestively and her eyes widen while her face colors a bit more pink, "You mean when we do it?"

"Yeah when we do it," he leaned in close and agreed, his tone heavy like a touch.

Her pupils swallow up her irises and for a second he holds his breath waiting for her eyes to turn into inky globes, but they don't and he shakes the idea out of his head, she leans back for space and air.

She tries to inhale steadily but there's a shakiness in it that he can hear, an audible shiver in her lungs and mouth before she starts speaking again.

"I didn't think about that. I don't know. It's going to be weird, I think. I feel like it'll be weird, at first."

"We'll go slow then."

Smoke tumbles out of her mouth, off her tongue while she stares at him. Her smile is soft, so is her hand when she finally places it over his and slips her fingers into the gaps between his. She takes a drag and looks out at the yard, content, "…okay."

A/N: So while this may be the "end" of the main storyline there may in the future be a companion piece…that's basically PWP. I think y'all will like it.