Disclaimer: I don't own anything having to do with American Horror Story.
Also, this has language and violence and sex.
The house inhabitants who debate whether or not the spawn is, in fact, the spawn, are completely and utterly fucking stupid.
They think that it's because of who Tate is that the spawn will bring about the end of the world, but that's absolute bullshit. In the eighteen years Violet's spent torturing herself with watching him grow up to be the murderous sociopath everyone predicted, she can conclude that Tate isn't the only factor.
Michael has something inside of him; she's seen it in his eyes, and it is far beyond the scared but malicious boy Tate can be. She doesn't know its exact cause, but she knows it's been there from the start. It's a dead evil that is wrapped in the light of a living soul, her mother, but the light is being tainted by the darkness seeping in, fighting with all it's got to destroy any goodness the spawn could have ever had.
In any case, like stated before, Tate isn't the ultimate cause.
The spawn is just the perfect storm of light and dark, the house and Constance; some genetic fuck fest resulting in a perfect little monster.
Which is why for the demon spawn's eighteenth birthday, he gifts himself the joy of stabbing the Southern bitch in the back, literally, about five to six times. Violet is sitting just behind the busted front gate, half-heartedly smoking her last cigarette while reading from her faded copy of Poe when she hears the knife's first entry.
The not-so-little psycho made her murder that much sweeter by doing it right in front of the house that could grant the bitch eternal life—not eternal youth, as much as she desired during her long life—though far enough away that he could relish watching her start to crawl helplessly to the gate so she could die within the house's boundaries, and live without actually living.
Violet has a clear view of the pathetic way the woman is now scraping along on her stomach, no doubt leaving her filthy, tainted blood in a trail much like a slug would. The look on her face is priceless; it's one of absolute desperation, more determined to keep being in this place than she ever was to be a good mother. The spawn is standing in the same spot, his face stony and eyes glinting in unrestrained happiness swirling with something far darker.
Then and there, Violet decides that she can't let this bitch take her last breath inside the house's gated bounds. For starters, the other inhabitants would probably kill her every day for the rest of whatever her life is now if she lets the person they consider the root of a lot of their pain end up as a permanent roommate.
She also just really wants to be the one to suck the last bit of life out of Constance's body, or, at the very least, get a couple of shots in while she can.
There are probably other people who Constance has hurt far worse, but all Violet can see is how broken she made Tate by her neglect and viciousness, the same emptiness that caused him to cling to Nora, who set the ball rolling with her need for a fucking baby.
Really, all Violet can see is the disturbingly macabre scene of her mom's life being torn from her insides as the spawn clawed its way out, as well as the feeling of utter betrayal she felt because the evil spawn is, after all, half Tate's.
So, she throws her book somewhere in the yard and taps the ashes away from her weakly burning cigarette tip, then brings it up for a slow, long-lasting drag, her cheeks becoming hollow, to keep it lit.
"You look like shit," she calls out to the emptying blood bag chugging along like The Little Engine That Could, now about three-quarters across the street—so close.
The blonde woman sputters, blood spewing from her mouth. "Ple-please…" she begs, coughing as she starts moving again.
Violet scoffs out a laugh, walking right up to the edge of the property, peering joyously at the slithering, bloody body. "Fuck off, you bitter cunt."
"Violet," Constance sputters out, "that's no w-way for a lady to sp-speak."
Trust the Southern bitch to try to tout lousy manners even when she's on death's goddamn doorstep.
Tenacious as ever, the blonde woman is now only about a foot or two in front of Violet. Her arms collapse as a particularly violent hacking bursts forth from her throat, and then she struggles to wave her hands out to Violet, obviously seeking some last-minute help with pulling her ass into the boundaries.
Violet is quick in her movements, not even really knowing what she's doing until she's already on her knees, grasping the bitch's chin in one hand to pull her face up, while her other hand brings the still-burning cigarette directly into her eye, twisting in this way and that to make sure every fucking inch is seared and raw and so painful that Constance is jerking back violently, grasping at her face in anguish. The smell of the burnt ashes fills the air, and Violet smirks crookedly at the gaping woman.
Smiling triumphantly, the feelings of sick pleasure and adrenalin coursing through her veins, Violet gets up and brushes off her tights to deliver her final blow. Her foot connects so easily with the woman's jaw, and she's satisfied to hear a beautiful crunching sound as Constance is flung on her back. Letting her anger flow through this outlet feels like she's finally gotten rid of whatever's been holding her back from moving on, and now all that's keeping her in place is, well, herself.
But that's before she realizes the spawn is still there, still in the same position and demeanor, except now there's a hint of a smirk.
"Thanks, Sis," he mock cheerily calls out.
Fury is vicious as it burns through her.
"Fuck you. Go find another old bitch to kill. Better yet, go find another nanny, though no one will bury this one for you."
He clutches his heart in jest. Do monsters even have hearts,she wonders, but dismisses that since all it does it cause memories of a certain romantic, blonde psychopath.
Before he can say whatever the hell it is that she probably doesn't want to hear, their staring match ends as the woman on the ground finally wheezes out her final breath, thankfully still splayed out on the road.
"I'm not helping you get rid of that. I couldn't even if I wanted to, so have fun." Violet spits out to the little evil fucker, turning around to retrieve her book. She can't possibly stay outside anymore.
"Say hi to my dad for me, Sis."
It's the next morning when Tate appears to Violet in her room. She's cutting patterns in her arms for fun, watching the blood run down to the floor.
"I thought you promised not to do that anymore." He accused, watching sadly but pointedly at the dripping cuts.
"I thought you promised not to hurt me."
He's silent for a moment, watching her continue to slice through her veins.
"I heard you killed my mom," he says. Violet is surprised that he wasn't watching the encounter; she knows he's always lurking and dwelling in the dark shadows around her, so it's odd that he wasn't last night.
"What? Didn't stick around for the show?" she smirks, unrepentant of her part in said activities.
"I was with Beau."
For a second, she smiles, thinking of the boy upstairs she has taken to playing with to avoid being surrounded by her everlasting thoughts.
"In any case, I didn't actually kill her. I might've taken some excessive steps to ensure we all don't have to suffer with her drunken perfect Southern woman act forever, but I doubt that was what did her in."
He smiles that sinister, boyish grin she secretly imagines when she touches herself sometimes late at night, and comes forward to fold himself down next to her on the floor. He grabs her arm, ignoring the twitch of resistance, and yanks the razor blade from her other hand to fling it away.
"If you want some pain, we can always try out the rest of the bondage stuff Chad left up in the attic." His suggestive tone reminds her of old memories, those exact memories that she always fights from flooding her thoughts.
"Fuck off," she says, snatching her hands back, ignoring the way the spot he touched tingled.
"I know you miss sex as much as I do. You finger yourself almost as often as I jerk off." She should feel repulsed that he had seen her, but knew that he was always looking through the shadows.
"What? Didn't find another mother to fuck, yet?"
She knows it's the perfectly wrong to say, and she relishes the look of despair that is replaced quickly with rage.
"You're a bitch, Vi."
"Go away, Asshole."
For the next week, Violet doesn't see, hear, or sense Tate anywhere near her. Hell, she can't even tell where he actually is all week, but she suspects he's with Beau.
She stops visiting the attic altogether.
The other ghosts steer clear of her because she's pissed off that he has seemingly given up on her. It isn't rational since the whole fifteen years since she caught him watching her decorating the Christmas tree, she's wanted nothing more than to stop feeling his eyes on her all the time.
Now that that's happened, all she wants is for him to resume stalking her. Because when he stalks her, she feels a slight twinge of happiness, well, as happy as she can get in this hell hole.
Two months later is when Tate finally reappears in her room. Unfortunately, it's at the exact time that she's got her tights around her ankles and two fingers knuckle deep in her drenched pussy.
"Having fun, I see." That's all he says as he climbs onto the bed with her. She hasn't stopped, only slowed her fingers to an agonizing pace as she stares at him through hooded, hazy brown eyes.
She licks her lips. "Where've you been?"
"Finding new ways to kill the others. Jerking off," his lips curl up, "Coming up with ways to get back to being inside of you."
Violet smirks when she thinks about how she wants to pay him back for leaving her truly alone—not even hovering on the brink of her consciousness—and she has to applaud herself for what crosses her mind.
"Maybe you don't need a plan for that. Maybe if you'd have been watching me for the past couple of months, you'd know that I haven't been able to get myself off, and I'm so fucking horny."
He says nothing, but she can see the wheels turning her words around and around in his head.
She sighs, if he wasn't going to make the next step, she sure as hell was. "Just come here,"
Tate's on her in a flash, but she's faster in pushing him off to climb onto his hips, her bare heat ghosting over the faded jeans covering his already erect dick.
She places hot, open-mouthed kisses along his neck, her hands sliding underneath his oversized sweater; her nails scrape harshly along the way back down to the waistband of his pants.
The only sounds are his harsh breathing, the wet kisses now landing on his jaw, and the pop and hiss of his pants being undone and then shoved down to his knees.
He doesn't have anything on underneath, and she tries to recall if she ever saw him wear underwear before.
His cock is hard and hot and everything she remembers from the too few instances she was able to get acquainted with it. She takes him into her hand and hitches her dress up, opening her legs a little wider.
For a brief moment, he goes back to being that sweet, fucked up boy her teenage self fell in love with, and it's almost too much for her.
"Fuck, Vi, I missed you so much. I swear I'll be better this time." His voice was soft but rough at the same time. The pleading tone entwined around a promise.
She hums noncommittally and starts to move him to brush across her slit, shivering with each pass. Tate's head is thrown back against the pillow in absolute bliss, and just as Violet positions him at her entrance, she decides to play her hand.
"Tate," she breathes. His eyes flutter open sluggishly and a contented smile appears on his face.
Violet doesn't see Tate for another month, but she knows he's there; she can feel him, his eyes, his suffocating fury enveloping her like flames, and she revels in it.
He's going to get her back sometime, she knows this, she's waiting for this, counting down the days as they tick slowly by.
In the meantime, she visits her mom, who is akin to a statue at this point. Violet doesn't know what happened between Christmas, when her family's afterlife seemed so promising, and now, with how Vivien spends her eternity in her music room, rocking her undead son in her arms while humming an annoyingly soothing tone on and on and on.
Her parents were always weak, and maybe the house just took advantage of that, finally taking them over completely.
"Hi, Mom," Violet says. She knows it's useless because all Vivien does is nothing, and all Violet feels is nothing, and everything is just fucking peachy on this side of death.
Violet kneels down in front of her mother and her fingers feather across the wisps of her brother's hair. She sees her father in the chubby little cherub face, and she's so thankful that it isn't Tate's features looking up at her like she's seen with the spawn on occasion.
Thank fuck he left for college soon after disposing of Constance.
She places a kiss atop his head, then her mother's cheek before leaving the room, promising herself that it will be for the last time.
Before, when her mom was first starting to go, she would take Ben with her to see if his psychobabble bullshit could snap her mom out of her funk, but she knows by now not to even bother with that waste of space.
After watching his wife slowly go comatose, Ben took the route of Hugo, and completely forgot about her or his kids and just began to fuck anyone unlucky enough to stumble into the master bedroom.
She's made that mistake, and having to kill her dad once is enough for her to stay away for good.
When she thinks about how the loneliness and pain have warped her parents' minds so completely, she muses that it might not be that bad to move on from her past hurt, and try to heal with Tate by her side.
She's not completely sold on that idea, but she knows in time that she won't be able to hold out any longer. After all, time is said to heal everything.
In the next few weeks, Violet can feel the parasitic beast of boredom clawing its way through her being: it's like a blood sucking tick on her skin, and at this point, she sees why the ghosts were driven to do the things they've done.
It is also in this time that she can conclude that it isn't the house that makes people evil or fucked up or however anyone wants to swing it; the people who came here already had those qualities inside them, whether they were buried deep down under lock and key, or just one word away from bubbling to the surface to set someone blazing on fire.
All the house does is thrive off those things, and heightens their potency so even more deliciously evil deeds can feed its never slated hunger. She knows this because she can feel the house pulling these feelings from her, stroking the flames of utter ennui that are driving her batshit crazy.
These musings comfort her somewhat when her thoughts stray to that precarious edge of sanity that she's been fighting to say balanced upon, or when she finds herself doing things that other people, mostly those still alive, living blissfully bullshit lives outside of this hell house, would consider insanely fucked up.
Like, say, fucking herself while she watches A Clockwork Orange for the fifth time that week because it's the only way for her to get off anymore. She refuses to let herself think of the fact that the thing that's making her come the hardest is how closely Alex resembles a certain blonde who, unbeknownst to her, is watching her from the shadows, purposely hiding himself from her sight and sense.
Violet tells herself that she's so hot for Alex because she revels in his violence.
After all, she has always been attracted to the dark ones.
She comes for the second time around the point when Alex jumps out of the window. Tate vanishes with his hand palming his hard cock.
They both know it's only a matter of time before she gives in, and Tate knows just the way to push her over that edge.
I know you're having trouble getting yourself off. Got a special kit from Chad, and made this to help you.
The note attached to the nondescript bag is not signed, but who else would be sending her shit? It's not like she has any friends in the house.
It sits on her rug for two weeks before she finally caves and dumps the contents on her bed. In all her wildest dreams, she never once thought he would do something like this.
A fucking dildo is lying there like it's a completely normal part of her bedding. The other thing about his gift that is startling is the fact that it's really fucking familiar, even though she's only had a couple of views in their short-lasted relationship.
She roots around inside the bag and pulls out a second note, this one with a dick doodled on the front of the folded page, the words Have Fun! written across it.
Yeah, it's a dildo. What makes it better is that it's a replica of my cock. You might not use it now, but I know it'll be in your pussy at some point, and fuck, I'll surely be waiting for that show.
At first, she's a little miffed, but mostly she just wants to come up with the perfect way to use it—the perfect show for Tate, because she knows that this is the finale, and she can't wait possibly any longer than she already has.
So, she does what any normal, ghostly teenage girl would do in her position.
She sets up a picnic blanket out in the backyard, in perfect view of the attic's window, and walks out of the house in her loosest dress—it is, after all, summer—sans tights. She has no fucks to give about whether or not the others will see her; it is a show, and tickets are free and open to the public, so long as one specific person attends.
And she knows he will.
Violet throws the bag on the blanket and flops down beside it. It's wool and itchy and awful, but she kind of likes the way it scratches across her bare skin, and is it messed up that she wonders how it will feel over her entire body when she's all the way bare?
No, she decides, and pulls her dress over her head, feeling the bright, heavy warmth of the golden sunshine hitting her everywhere all at once. It's exciting to be totally naked outside, but almost disappointing in the way that she knows that even if she's 'caught' nothing will really come of it, so there's not really anything to worry about by being exposed out in the open.
She waits for a few moments with her eyes closed. Of course, as soon as she's relaxed, all she sees is Tate; loving her, kissing her, touching everywhere, and smirking with blonde curls falling into his eyes—something that is completely adorable, but Violet will never admit to liking anything described by that adjective. Adorable was never in her vocabulary
It doesn't matter, though, because there's enough proof between her thighs and in the way her heart had skipped and skipped and skipped when the image invaded her thoughts.
It's immediately apparent when the star audience member has tuned in because she can feel him watching her from the attic; no anger anymore, just lust and love and maybe a hint of evil, but only enough to make her dripping wet, not shoot up a school.
She knows it's time, and a thrill shocks its way through her system when she drags her hands slowly up her thighs. Never really one for an overstated build-up when she's running solo, her fingers seek out her wet slit, and she shakes a little when her thumb brushes her swollen clit.
It's the first time since they stopped fucking that she thinks she might come in only a few minutes, not spending hours buried in herself only to roll over frustrated and entirely dissatisfied.
No, this is distinctly different, and she has to hold back a little to make sure she doesn't come before she's able to put his appreciated gift to good use. Her fingers ghost along the seams of her wetness, and she slides a finger inside of herself, knowing she's ready, and god, does she want to know what it's like to have him inside of her again, even if it's only a copy.
Her breath is quick and shallow as she reaches into the bag beside her to pull out the fake cock. She lifts her eyes to the window when she brings it to her mouth, tongue darting out to flit across the tip teasingly before she sucks it into her mouth. She feels another rush of excitement when she swirls her tongue around the head because she feels the heat from his longing stare, and it's burning her from the inside out. His mouth slowly drops open as he gazes at her, and she knows now is the time.
She drags the cock down her body, and shivers when the wind blows on the trail her saliva leaves in its wake, giving her a delectably cold and sultry feeling on her heated body. The dick is already at her clit and she can't help but swirl it there in small circles, pants escaping her every time it passes directly on her.
Unable to take it any longer, she positions his faux cock at her entrance, pushing it inside of her while canting her hips to take in more, the same way she did with Tate when she finally got used to the way his big dick felt inside of her.
Even though this replica is like the real deal in texture—fuck, she can feel every dip and ridge as she slides it inside of her—she also can't wait for when Tate will come down to replace what's inside her now with his own cock and pin her down and fuck her and bite her and whisper how much he loves her into her hair when he comes inside her.
Violet slows the movement of her hips when she begins to move the dick in a way that makes her toes curl and her free hand grasp the itchy fabric beneath her. She imagines Tate is there with her, and that he's hungrily devouring her mouth the way he used to when he was particularly excited to be inside of her. Memories of the sound of his harsh breath blowing hotly into her ear and the way his tongue would lave across the area where her neck and shoulder meet flit to the forefront of her mind, and her hips buck and circle and she knows she'll come, she just needs a small push to topple over.
Like he knows just that, Tate appears in front of Violet, taking in the beautiful dips, curves, and movements of her petite, well-developed body for a few moments before crouching down to settle between her open legs. Violet is too lost in the moment, and only barely senses that he's with her.
He gets her attention with a whisper of her name as he brushes her hand aside to pull the fake appendage out of the place only his real cock has the right to be in anymore.
Violet's eyes snap open as the rapid movement of her new toy sliding out of her, combined with the soft, lusty whisper of her name from the only boy she'll ever want, pushes her into the blissful abandon of falling apart with the sunlight warming her already feverish flesh and her boy's hands so close to her pulsing cunt.
When she finally comes down from her orgasm, Violet immediately feels the distinct sensation of someone eating her out. Only once has she experienced this particular sex act, but once is enough for her to know that she really, really likes it.
Especially when she looks down to see blonde curls tickling her thighs as Tate's tongue works its magic along her slit, lapping at her juices, sucking on her bare folds, teasing, but promising so much more.
He pauses when he senses that she's back to Earth, and looks up with a small, crooked grin.
Her legs quake when she sees herself smeared all over his mouth and chin.
"Finally returned to the land of the undead, I see." Before she can speak, he places his mouth back on her for a second to swirl deliciously around her clit. The bundle of nerves itself was still pulsating in the post orgasm she just experienced, and the way Tate's tongue feels around it makes her want to come undone again. Violet can't help but buck her hips to feel more; she's okay with being greedy in this situation.
"Now, now, Vi, no need to break my jaw."
He moves to sit back, and she whines a little in the back of her throat, but drowns the noise when he starts to move up her body, kissing, nipping, and licking. When he bites the curve above her hips, she lets out a giggle involuntarily.
"You're an ass. You know I'm ticklish there, and I told you to stop fucking doing that."
"Yeah, you did. Eighteen years ago, so sue me if I wanted to see that reaction up close and personal again."
By now, he's right up face to face with her, and moves to brush a chunk of brownish blonde hair that's blown over her eyes behind her ear. "I meant what I said that day, Violet. I miss you and even though I'm an ass, which you love by the way, I'll be better this time. No more setting people on fire, unless you ask, of course."
If she wanted to screw things up, she would tell him that 'being better' should include not raping her mother, but there's no way in hell she'll do that. She's bored and lonely, and maybe it's not cool to forgive the person who did so many evil things, but he's the boy she loves, and she's stuck in the body of a teenage girl, so she'll act the part and revel in the glow of her and her first and only love being reunited in the most carnal of ways.
"Shut up and kiss me, Tate."
He gives her the smile that he only ever saves for her; it's boyish and charming, and makes her toes curl when it reaches his eyes and brings out a dimple on his cheek. He claims her lips in a gentle kiss, his tongue finding its way into the moist cavern of her mouth. He presses his body to hers fully and it finally dawns on her that he's also completely naked. She mourns the fact that she can't see his ass, but calls it an even trade when she feels his fingers wander up her thigh, landing in the place his mouth was just moments before.
She hisses when he teases her entrance before plunging two fingers into her pussy, curling them to hit that place inside of her that causes electricity to flicker throughout her body. He grins into their kiss at her reaction, she can feel it, but she's not bothered because she's too turned on at this point to care about him being cocky.
He's moving his fingers in a quick, almost harsh manner, preparing her. She knows they aren't going to spend too much time on foreplay, because they're too horny and all of their antics leading up to this moment are pretty much all the fucked up foreplay they need.
Violet bucks her hips when Tate's thumb presses hard on her clit, his fingers still maintaining their movements. He moves his lips to her neck, teeth scraping across her jugular. She's half crazed, and wonders briefly if the savageness she knows is still inside of him might make an appearance and bite through the delicate skin there to let her blood flow freely.
Then Tate, noticing her distracted state, positions himself at her entrance and pushes his hard self inside of her, and she loses her crazy thoughts altogether. He pulls back, grabbing her wrists in one hand to raise them above her head, causing her back to arch and chest to push out. He pulls out, but pushes back inside of her, slowly, letting her feel all of him, so that she knows it's him and not some fucking toy, while leaning his head down further to take one of her tightened pink nipples into his mouth, biting down hard enough to leave a mark, but not to draw any blood.
"Fuuuck," Violet breathes, beginning to push her hips up to meet his, trying to set a faster pace, but Tate just grabs on of her hips with his free hand to hold her steady.
"Do you want me to fuck you harder, Violet?" He gives another slow, calculated thrust, and she mewls in need of something faster, harder, more brutal.
"Please…" she whines, looking at him with half-lidded eyes.
"I want to hear you say it, Vi."
She's frustrated that he's decided to play this game now, of all times, but at this point, she just wants relief, and if giving him an ego boost is the way to get it, she'll fucking do just that.
"Yes," she hisses when he gives a harsh tug on her neglected nipple. "Please fuck me harder, please."
His grin in response to her pleads is downright smug and she simultaneously wants to smack him and climb on top of him to ride him like crazy.
"How can I say no to that?"
And then he's pushing his hips so hard and fast and she's gasping for unneeded air and wondering why she gave this up for so long. She wraps her long, creamy legs around his waist to gain purchase, still unable to use her hands, which he squeezes together further in response to her movements.
He's grunting, and she's making those high-pitched, breathy sighs she does when she's close enough to be driven over the edge by a single instant. He still knows the signs her body gives his—he's the only one who will ever know her body—and he brings his mouth up to hers for a kiss, driving his tongue into her gasping mouth, wrapping it around hers, tugging on it in the way he knows she likes. His hand squeezes hers to the point of pain, which he knows is just what she needs. Her response is immediate, and he can feel her starting to spasm around his cock.
"That's it, Vi. Fuck, I want to feel you come apart around me." His voice was raspy, and his grunts pant harshly in her ear. It's been so long since she's heard them, and the action turns her on more.
Then she's coming, her hips moving frantically and her breath coming out in gasps as she's flung into complete and utter pleasure, her pussy contracting around Tate. He buries his head in her neck, laving lazily across the sensitive area as he comes apart inside of her, his beautiful Violet who's finally let him back inside of her, in every meaning, while she rubs her hands up and down his back absentmindedly.
Tate comes down the same way he did the handful of times they were together so many years ago; he's peppering kisses all over her face, whispering sweet, sometimes intelligible words of graciousness and love.
Violet is in a state of satisfied bliss, and can't help but picture the kinds of things she would have wanted to do with Tate if she wasn't dead and they had met in her English class instead of him as a ghost in the hell house, telling her the correct way to kill herself.
What she thinks about is only a little startling—she doesn't know if the way the repressed thoughts sprang to the forefront of her mind is her brain or her ovaries' reaction to sex—because she's watched the spawn grow up for eighteen years, and it's been eating at her little by little every day how much she wishes she could've had little carbon copies of her and Tate, all shining blonde hair, wide dark brown eyes, and mischievous smirks.
The fact that she can't is disheartening and unfair and exactly the kind of thing life—even the variety to which she subscribes—gives to people every single day because it can truly suck sometimes.
The boy covering her finally brings his head back up to look into her eyes. In this moment, they are just Tate and Violet, two ghostly adolescents ready to spend eternity together, playing cards or listening to music or fucking their way through forever.
There's no way in hell now that she'll fuck up their last chance at some sort of happiness by wallowing in the past or a future that is impossible. He's here, with her, and that's all that matters, forever.
They are each other's forever.
Of course, with Tate around, it's easy to be distracted from her wandering mind, and he does just that with his usual, cocky banter.
"So, which was better?" Tate motions to his cock, then the fake one laying a little ways away on the blanket.
"You're a loser. Go away," Violet huffs. She sounds all of her teenaged girlness and more, but she's dead, so who the hell really cares anymore?
Tate smirks when nothing happens, and pulls her closer just to underscore the point that he's still there, and more importantly, that she no longer has the need to want him gone.
"Guess this means you want me to stay."
This isn't my first story, but it is my first AHS one, so I hope it was somewhat enjoyable. I had great help from the lovely RRsabi. Seriously, she added some awesome lines (like my favorite: The pleading tone entwined around a promise), and overall made the weaker points way stonger. She is very talented!
Title for this came from the song Scattered by Green Day. The other two songs that were stuck on repeat while I wrote this were Tiger Mountain Peasant Song by Fleet Foxes and Disenchanted by My Chemical Romance.
There might be a second chapter including some of that bondage stuff...
Anyway, have a great Friday the 13th (if it's still that date wherever you are).
Thanks for reading!