Title: Gold Star Economy
Summary: She comes from a long line of mental illness, high IQs, medical degrees and murder victims. Ghosts don't scare her.
Spoilers/Warning/Triggers: Language, violence, sexual situations, drug use, non-con, slight S1 and S2 fusion, character death
A/N: So the writing for ahs_exchange ends this Wednesday and then the fics will start being posted so read all the amazing fic and review it and vote in the exchange awards. Also some of you guys are going to hate me for this chapter. Tate in this is dark, bad, no good, and he likes it that way.
She finds a present from him on her bed. Medical supplies that he got from wherever ghosts go for sterile needles and surgical thread.
It's hard to do with one hand, but she manages. The vodka stings as she swabs the area while hoping to God that ghosts don't have flesh eating bacteria under their nails.
She calls for him and he's there, like a well trained dog. She's always wanted a pet of her own. He helps her wrap gauze over the stitches, they bleed through a little and his hands are cold but she's alright.
Especially when she stands up to close her bedroom door, lock it, and he's already pressed against her back. He lets her turn around and cages her in between his arms, his hands flat against the door. One hand trails down and traces the lace on her bralet gently.
"So, what do you think you deserve."
He scowls, presses his thumb to the gauze, makes her wince, stains the white threads darker red.
"No. Don't," he leans his forehead against her, "people's mothers do that right after they get a good grade on a spelling test or clean their room."
She takes in a breath between her teeth when his thumb digs in, her stitches are going to pop and she squirms trying to twist her arm away. He doesn't let her.
"Take off your clothes."
"I'm pretty sure you've seen me naked already."
He takes his hand off her arm and holds it up between them to get her to stop talking. She rolls her eyes.
"I wasn't finished."
"Then keep going," she snarks waving her face in front of his.
"I want to have sex with you."
He leans back and stares at her, hard. Confused, not angry. Such a boy.
"You haven't even let me do anything to you yet."
"When is sex negotiable?"
"Not now, one negotiation at a time."
"Fine." He takes his hands off the door and her and takes a step back. She relaxes her bare shoulders against the door.
"But, I did hide a body for you and incapacitate a ghost for an indefinite period of time, a ghost who probably would have done really horrible things to you, a halfhearted hand job is not going to do it." He grins and sits down on her bed before flopping back, trying to be nonchalant, get her attention, try to get her to earn his in some semblance of juvenile power play playground game bullshit.
"Okay, so what do you want?" She's already crossed the room to stare down at him from the foot of her bed, hands cinched around the metal frame. "Within reason," she adds when his eyes open and he stares up at her."
"You've never done anything with a boy before?"
"No. But how complicated can it be to suck?"
His mouth open and clacks shut with the sound of teeth clicking together, speechless. Heh. It's kind of endearing. He's cute. "What? That's what you wanted right?"
Really, how hard can blowjobs be?
"Yeah," he looks at her like she's already got his dick in her mouth.
"Sit up and take off your pants."
She steps around the bed and sits on the floor, picking at the bedspread while he shoots up and his fingers twitch against his belt.
There's a feeling she gets, she'd call it disappointment but it's not. Maybe it is. She can't decide. She just feels a little underwhelmed. He is such a boy.
Here she was thinking he'd be a little bit more menacing, more ghostly, more something. But he's just a boy. Dead and buried somewhere but still…it is disappointing.
And he sees it on her face when he's unzipping his pants and she's between his legs looking bored.
His hands are off his fly and smoothing down his thighs. Now she's curious. He smiles, dimples and charm and up to no good.
"Changed my mind. Stand up."
"Up," his palms are warm and dry against her elbows, "Come on," he keeps nudging until she's on her feet and his hands have slipped down to her hips.
"Okay, turn around."
Her eyes turn around in their sockets but she does it, his fingers smooth over her ass in one quick motion, unzipping her skirt until it's falling down around her feet, "What are you doing?" She may shriek a little, surprised not scared.
"Shut up." He sounds more irritated than amused, and then there are fingers inside the band of her leggings yanking them down her thighs, or trying until she turns and slaps at his hands, "Hey!" She's struggling to get them back up but he's got her wrist snared, "Leave it."
She swallows and relaxes her arm, stops trying to pull it loose and disregards her tangled tights.
"Take 'em off."
It's twisted how much she's enjoying to turn-about. Not so normal boy now. He's staring between her legs, floral print cotton, girlish but not little kid.
"Yeah, thanks. These are my 'fuck me' panties."
He's not looking at her anymore, just her underwear tracing the elastic with his fingertips, barely there heat ghosting over sensitive skin. It's getting her hot. Tingles right down her spine and all. The panties he's staring so hard at starting to get damp, feeling kind of unnecessary.
"Take them off." He makes it sound like a suggestion. She would have done it just for shock value, would have done it just to ease the start of an ache between her thighs but now he's telling her to do it and it sounds like a better idea when he's the one thinking it, wanting it.
She does it and extends her panties to him, "You want to smell them too, creep?"
"Maybe later. Come on." He pats his legs. She can't resist bullshitting with him for a little bit, "Come on what?"
"Get on my lap."
"Are you gonna spank me?"
"No, just sit on my lap."
She straddles his thighs, hers open wide and it's a novel new sensation rubbing up against frayed denim and flannel, still she grumbles because she's supposed to be the one out of their two that is master over the dominion of her perpetually roiling and rumbling teenage girl hormones, "I'm going to sit on your face if you don't get to the point."
"Puh-lease, you'd probably accidentally smother me if I tried to eat you out. Up on your knees."
His face is right at the level of her pitifully girly bralet, she's wearing her cute shit today, "What are you go…ohhhh." She's cut off by his fingers skimming between her folds, fingertips warm. She thinks of something inane in the moment 'loose lips sink ships' something like that, she knows it's a phrase about sinking submarines and spilling military secrets (maybe, she's been known to have been wrong sometimes) but it works better as a euphemism for girls bringing boys down by using parts of themselves boys like best.
"You talk waaaay too much."
She thinks even more.
But her coherency and witty wordplay fails her while he's searching for a place to dock his fingers.
"You sure you like me, Violet? Because you're not that wet."
"Do you not know how a girl's pussy works?"
"Is it like a car? Needs awhile to heat up or else it just blows cold?"
She has her eyes closed but his are open and he isn't blind so he manages to catch the half scowl half frown of concentration she gives him. It's hard to enjoy his hand when his mouth keeps distracting her in a less than ideal way.
And with a easy slow push he's got her penetrated with a finger, longer than her own, different angle, so much more savorable than her worn out old masturbation routine, she breathes hard and he chapped lips kiss her clavicle, scratchy.
"There we go."
She's drowsy on fucklust for a little bit while he pumps in and out of her, gentle, soft, the afternoon stroll of fingering a girl you like.
"Don't…" she reaches down when his hand pulls back far enough to extend another finger, "three's too much." She sounds fussy, she can't really find the motivation to purse her lips so they stay parted and form loose words, breath wafting cinnamon gum and cigarettes and vanilla coffee phantom flavors on his mouth, she's his sugar and spice girl who leaves a glaze of sweet saliva on his tongue.
"Not compared to other parts of my body."
"You have to earn that."
"What?" She breathes, not even trying to pay attention.
He not really pumping anymore just lets his fingers get cinched and suffocated by the tight little nook, his free hand cups the sharp angle of her cheek and his thumb flicks her tongue, gathering dew before dropping down to her clit and rolling it in meandering circles of slow spun orgasm.
"Tell me about how I earn it; it's the kind of stuff you think about when you touch yourself, right? Hurting people."
"I've been thinking about the things you've done."
"They have a plaque…in the library. All the names are on it."
"Wish I could see it."
"Yeah. Me too."
Hers eyelids fold up and the creaking of her mattress catches her attention before his face does, before she can remember what she said, "I said 'me too,' I wish you could see it."
"Doesn't matter you can't leave."
"I can leave on Halloween."
"Yeah, it passed already. I know."
"You should have said something."
"I was supposed to be buried under your gazebo. Get back to what you were saying."
"How many kids did you kill in there?"
"I killed six."
"Counting the librarian?"
"Not dead. Still there."
"Too bad. So, you think about me fucking you while you do research for your book reports?"
"Yeah. I do."
"How would I earn that?"
"I'll think of something. Oh, fuck. Fuck. Come on."
She cums in an incoherent daze, eyes spacey, thighs hot, cunt throbbing around his knuckles, leaking on his hand, like a soft lit pale and pink porno dream that's revolved, replayed, evolved in his brainspace. It gives him a secondhand high to watch it.
"Yup." She rises up off his fingers and tilts onto the bed. Getting off is usually something she does before bed, her body is programmed to want to go to sleep afterwards. She can't be bothered to pull the sheets up or put her panties back on.
His hand smoothes over the side of her thigh, her hip, her ass until she nudges it away. He smiling at her, "Good."
She pokes at his leg with her toes, "What about you?"
"Yeah?" She doesn't believe him.
"Okay." She snuggles into her pillows and grins at him.
"Let me know when you plan on making me drink Draino or whatever, you little freak."
"See you later, weirdo."
He picks up her panties off the floor where she dropped them, "Can I borrow these?"
And she knows what he's probably going to do with them (jerk off into them) but there's always the chance he'll do something less likely (wear them) and so…
"You can keep them."
"Hey…" He's forgotten her name…"Lee, Lea, Lee-fuck…can't remember."
There's no visible reaction to him being in the room or him talking to her.
It doesn't matter.
He arranges her hair in a ponytail he's seen Violet wear a time or two in the morning when she's getting ready for school.
The dead girl has bigger tits but the waist is the same size and in the dark the hair is almost the same color.
It's not so easy to get her naked and put Violet's underwear on her but it helps get him in the mood, even with her useless flopping limbs getting in the way.
She makes a sound when he puts her on her knees and her hands on the wall, like some precious captive just trying to be as compliant as possible to avoid some worse punishment.
He pulls the crotch of Violet's panties to the side and pretends it's her waist he's got his hands around and her cunt slipping down over him, his exhale shakes and he ruts up inside the dead girl hard enough that she whimpers, pain being the only thing her brain can process anymore.
His fingers slip inside her mouth and push to the back of her throat to hear some sound he can pretend is enjoyment, encouragement.
It's with the flick of a lighter wheel and the hiss of butane that his stomach drops, hard, empty, fear.
"I think it's time we start discussing your entitlement issues, Tate."
It's just the good doctor. He has a collegiate date rape past written all over him, Tate doubt's he's managed to surprise Doctor Harmon with this particular basement surprise.
"I'm projecting wanting to fuck you're daughter onto Miss Lobotomy. Sorry, pretending. Not projection. Sorry. Those psych terms are kinda confusing. Really, therapeutic by the way."
But it does pose a problem.
"You're late for your session."
"Well I'll be right up." He waves his head around to articulate his point. Ben just chuckles a little. Unphased, clear cut sociopath to the core to not care about what's going on between the Murder House dead.
Ben Harmon has leverage.
Between Doctor Ben and jamming his fingers too far down Leah's throat, causing what should be a nonexistent gag reflex to react, and the bile vomit running down his arm, his hard-on is shot.
A/N: Guys, I'm not sorry.