This takes place in S1E11

I had WAY too much fun writing this...This is how I know with absolute certainty I'm insane X3 Oh well, won't deny the obvious. Still, I hope you guys like reading it and if u can, please please please leave a review. I'll appreciate it A LOT! Thanks in advance! X3 ENJOY!

Also, I do NOT own American Horror Story or any of the characters!


Tate stood motionless for a complete five minutes, running over the plan again. His eyes bore holes into the freshly painted door. White. The colour of purity and innocence. He scoffed at the idea of anything being white in that cured house, in their cursed presences.

He knew the other man was inside. He could hear the faint sound of brushstrokes as paint was applied layer by layer to the rest of the room. But there was no joy in the act, even if the reason behind the scenery change was supposedly a happy one. All Tate felt was anger, deep and dark, strong enough to snuff out any pretend merriment at the prospect of bringing a child into that hell hole.

He took a deep breath and pushed the door lightly. It opened before him without a sound, silently allowing him to enter the soon to be nursery. His eyes immediately fell on the ghost furiously running the brush laden with white paint up the walls, his posture crouched and facing away from him. But as soon as Tate took another step the dead man paused and, even through the material of his faded green shirt, his muscles visibly tensed.

'So how does this work? Will the kid call you both dad or is one of you the mom?' Tate watched as Patrick turned to face him. His eyes showed nothing but abhorrence. He rose to his feet slowly, an expression which threatened great pain knitting his eyebrows into a deep furrow. Immediately Tate put up his hands in mock surrender, a small smile playing on his lips.

'Just messing with ya.' Pat's glare didn't waver but he didn't make a move to attack either which Tate took to mean he could continue. He took another small step inside the room. 'But seriously though, are you ready for all this?' He waved his finger in a circle, gesturing at the entire room. 'I mean, you never struck me as the dippers and midnight feeding types.'

'Maybe you should have taken a minute to get to know me before you stuck a fire place poker up my ass.' Patrick's tone was low and dangerous but he clearly didn't think Tate was worth the trouble. He turned away again and resumed his interrupted work, his hand reaching for the dropped brush. He missed seeing Tate roll his eyes.

'Fair enough.' He let his eyes drop for a moment, as if resigned to agree with Patrick's logic though he still had hang-ups of his own. 'Look. We're all gonna be here for a long time, so...' He took a breath. Patrick continued to brush. '...Maybe we can figure out a way to let bygones be bygones and you know, go have a take-' Tate shook his shoulders. He seemed to apologise for something trivial, like borrowing a pencil for too long, rather than Pat's murder.

'I'm dead! Because of you!' The older ghost abruptly turned around and silenced Tate with his accusation. He glared maliciously at the teenager before slowly turning to the wall once more.

'There's gotta be something I can offer you. I mean just because we're dead doesn't mean we don't have wants.' Tate enclosed the crib's corner pole between his fingers and ran them up the smooth red surface. He knew he had Patrick's interest the moment he paused pretending to paint and slightly turned his head to look over his shoulder. 'Desires...' Tate's lips stretched in a knowing smile, his fingers slowly caressing the wood. Patrick straightened his back slightly, his head turning just a little bit further.

'Marriage looks hard.' Neither missed the intentional pun. Tate began making his way towards the other, the palm of his hand moving along the rail of the crib, sensually. Deliberately. 'Especially to that guy, who's on you all the time. And never in the ways you want, right?' Tate's arm fell by his side and his steps came to a stop. He was standing just within Patrick's reach, just one step behind his crouched figure. 'It must suck...' Tate glanced down at the other ghost and caught his eyes frugally fall to his waist. He knew the man wanted him...He was good at playing cat and mouse. '...To have to wait until Halloween every year, to get a little strange.' Their eyes made contact.

Patrick rose to his feet, their gazes locked together the whole time, and Tate was no longer looking down, but up. Silence hung around them like a cloak and the youth knew he'd successfully ensnared his mouse. He could see Patrick's eyes turn darker, could feel his breath became just a little bit more laboured, could practically hear the drumming of his dead heart. Or maybe it was his own heart which pumped a surge of adrenaline...It was hard to tell.

Patrick's eyes moved down his face, tracing his lips, and he leaned in just a quarter of an inch. Tate unconsciously let his mouth open, ready for what was sure to happen next, and a tight knot of anticipation coiled inside his stomach. A soft rush of air left his lungs before his head exploded in unexpected pain. His eyes rolled in his head and he slid against the neared wall, his hand moving to touch the fresh injury from where Patrick had head-butted him.

'I can't kill you but I can make you suffer!' The man was on him before he had a chance to say a word, delivering furious punch after furious punch, and causing his neck to twist violently from side to side. Tate groaned, feeling blood trickle across his lips from his nose. The blows stopped and Patrick's hands fisted the material of his shirt, pressing him painfully into the wall.

'The best part is that when I'm done, you'll heal up and I can beat the shit out of you all over again!' Tate's hazy eyes flew open only to close again and he laughed madly. It amused him how easily he managed to rile up this poor, pathetic soul. And it amused him that Pat actually thought a good beating would be enough to make him suffer. His happy hour was cut short however when all the oxygen left his lungs, a powerful fist having made hard contact with his unprepared stomach. He groaned and heaved over only to feel another sting across his cheek which sent him sprawling across the floor.

'Harder! I like it rough.' Tate moved on all four and pushed his hips up, his head turning to look mockingly at the enraged spirit. His messy blonde strands flew around in complete disarray.

'It's not supposed to be like this!' Patrick kicked out, his foot catching Tate square in the ribs and pushing him over on his side. 'I'm not supposed to be here!' Another kick, another groan of pain. Tate felt Patrick's hands on him, lifting him to his feet, before they caught his head, the finger tangling into his hair, and shaking him. They were close enough for Tate to feel the other ghost's icy temperature.

'Look at me! Look at me! I was going to get out!' Suddenly he found himself pushed away once more, his back making a harsh sound when it hit the newly dressed walls. He slid down, his legs unable to hold him without Pat's supporting arms. But he didn't get a chance to reach the floor before a knee to the gut and a punch across the face sent him right back across the floor. His lips curved into a wide grin, his tongue tasting the iron of his own blood. His eyes darkened and his heart beat franticly, his legs slightly parting when he heard Patrick approach no doubt eager to add a few more bruises.

'I fell in love. God help me, I was gonna get out and be with him and then you killed me and now I'm stuck here...!' Tate slowly rose to his feet, his wide smirk still plastered across his bloody face, and he was rewarded for his efforts with a punch so hard across the jaw, it send his entire frame toppling over. '...With him!'

They both felt it, the presence of another. Their skins, though constantly cold, prickled in alarm when another one of their kind made their presence known. Patrick froze, already knowing the new ghost's identity. He turned his head towards the door and his eyes met Chad's. Judging from the betrayed eyes slowly turning to anger, it was far too late to deny anything. Suddenly he left, running down the corridor and Patrick chased after him, calling his name in a desperate attempt to appease the man whom he had loved...A long time ago.

Tate grinned widely, his chest rising and falling steadily. He ran his fingers over the object safely housed in his palm. He felt the metallic circumference and slipped a finger inside the ring but it slipped right out. His fingers were too thin for the golden shackle of marriage. He brought it to his face so he could better inspect it. What a tedious thing marriage was. Supposedly the ring signified eternal connection between the two spouses but all Tate could see was eternal imprisonment. Being dead certainly didn't help disprove his hypotheses...

'It's all your fault!' Tate quickly enclosed the ring in his fist once more before glancing towards the door. Patrick was back, his nostrils flaring like a bull seeing red. Tate inconspicuously slid the token in his jeans pocket as he rose to his feet, his body already healed and ready for another pommeling.

'Really now? Are you just going to stand there and point fingers at everyone else other than yourself? I'm not the one who fucked up your marriage, Mr. I-can't-keep-my-dick-in-my-pants.' Tate smirked and shrugged his shoulders, ignoring Patrick's obviously murderous rage. What's more, he was adding fuel to the already raging inferno.

'Shut up. You don't know anything! You don't know what it was like every day to come back here to him!' Patrick stepped inside the room but stopped again before he could reach Tate, though his visible muscles flexed readily. There was something addictive about sinking one's fists into living meat, something euphoric.

'Actually, I know a hell of a lot more than I'd like. Don't forget I was around before you two love birds moved in. Do you still call the wrong name when you're fucking him?' Patrick's eyes narrowed warningly but Tate only grinned his damned Cheshire Cat grin.

'Shut up.'

'Do you still push him away when he tries to kiss you? Does he even try anymore or has he finally realized you're just not worth the trouble?' Tate neared Patrick while the other remained rooted. He knew Patrick was going to kill him and frankly the thought excited him like nothing had in a very long time. The thrill of danger was like a drug to him and nothing was more dangerous than death.

'Shut up!'

'If I were him I would have moved on a long time ago. I mean, you don't even seem that good in bed. But hey, I'm just judging from your boyfriend's obviously fake moans. Or didn't you know he was faking all those times?-'

'I said SHUT UP!' Tate had a second to widen his grin before the stars began dancing across the canvas of his closed eyelids. His bones rattled when his skull smacked into the wall, the sound a sickening thud. He knew he was bleeding again and he ran his tongue over his cut lip, eager to taste the red liquid.

Strong hands gripped his shoulders, pinning him against the vertical surface, and his eyes fluttered open when those same hands shook him violently. Pat was so close to him, his laboured breath mixing with Tate's heaving one.

'You don't know a fucking thing, you little piece of shit.' Each word was pushed through clenched teeth but Tate didn't really hear them. He was too busy following the movements of Pat's lips with his hungry eyes.

'Then show me. Prove yourself or admit you were a lousy bed partner.' That infuriatingly smug smirk again. Their eyes met and both knew they wanted it, both set of orbs as dark as the dead of night.

'I don't have to prove squat to a little psycho like you.' But Patrick said this for the sole purpose of attempting to save some shard of dignity and they both knew it. As soon as the last word rolled off of his tongue, that same tongue was pressed against Tate's. There was no love in the act, not even a smear of kindness, only confrontation.

Pat pressed Tate harder against the wall, using his whole body this time, and forced the younger ghost's legs apart, not that Tate was unwilling... He grasped the material of Tate's striped shirt only to tear it apart, putting all those work-out sessions at the gym to good use. The sound of ripping clothes mixed with Tate's shallow gasps of air, his own fingers clawing at Pat's back. Patrick felt Tate's leg wind around his waist, pulling him in further, and he ground their hips together. He relished the choked moan which flowed off Tate's tongue and into his mouth. It was clear who had the most experience of the two and Pat fully intended to make Tate eat his earlier insults.

He broke apart long enough to pull his own t-shirt up over his head and discard it somewhere behind him, before he attacked the younger lips once more. The kiss was bruising, painful even, and it was more thrilling than death. Tate bit Pat's tongue but he didn't manage to sever the muscle. The sharp sting of a back hand slap across his cheek was his reward and he moaned, begging for more. He received it.

Pat's mouth enclosed around the skin of Tate's arched neck, his teeth sinking into the flesh and tearing the skin apart. Blood trailed freely down the pale chest before Pat lapped it, swallowing the red drops just as the wound mysteriously healed. He was free to do this a few times, staining Tate's skin with vibrant scarlet, and every time he caused pain Tate screamed for him to bite harder.

Patrick's back throbbed, the other's fingers etching his own marks deep into his flesh, and it incited him to sink his own blunt nails into Tate's angular hips. Angry red lines stretched from the dirty blonde's abdomen to his stomach and Tate was loving every second of it. Suddenly he bucked his hips upwards, extracting a groan from the bigger man, but making his point quite clear. The strain of his jeans was becoming quite an inconvenience and judging from the bulge growing inside Pat's pants the other was mirroring his discomfort.

Patrick locked eyes with Tate before he crushed their lips together, their tongue coiling around each other like serpents and savoured the taste of blood. Pat's hands moved to Tate's waistband and practically tore that apart as well, destroying the zipper in the process for sure. His finger sneaked inside immediately and grasped the eager treasure standing proudly to attention. Tate tried to break free, a moan clawing its way out of his throat, but Pat refused to let him escape. The younger fingers cut into his shoulder blades as easily as the fangs of a wolf in the throat of a doe but Pat didn't mind. He was going to pay Tate back...with interest.

Pat felt like he was on fire, even if his life's flame was extinguished, for the first time in he forgot how long. It was so liberating to break free of the chains which dictated he had to behave and unleash his animalistic side. His wild side. With a sudden motion, he turned Tate around, his eyes narrowing at the sound of his skull banging against the destroyed wall. The paint was smeared with Tate's blood and, in a fleeting moment of clarity, he realized it looked better that way... Like any baby raised in that house would be normal anyway. A little blood on the walls was PG compared with the usual daily routines.

He pulled on Tate's hips, forcing him to slide down and part his legs as far as they would go, and took the opportunity to push the jeans all the way down the ghost's thin legs. Tate glanced over his shoulder, his palms pressed flat against the white, leaving red prints. He watched Pat's hands move to his own jeans and unzip them with daft fingers, used to being in a hurry. When the hands returned to his hips, Tate faced the wall again, mentally bracing himself for what was to come but Pat drove inside him far quicker than anticipated.

Tate threw his head back, a scream or moan, he wasn't sure which, caught in his throat as razor sharp sensations cut across his nervous system. He sucked in air only to hiss it back out when Patrick pulled away only to thrust back in, each time harder and faster. Tate felt the other's nails claw at the small of his back, tearing the skin apart, and he bucked his hips, seeking the trill of pain like an addict would drugs. It made him feel alive.

Patrick's breath became laboured, even more ragged than it was already, and he rutted deep inside his murder like an animal, severing all ties with his humanity. He could feel the moment approaching, the moment when all hell would break loose and he knew Tate was close too. He became more vocal and eager, his hips practically doing all the work. The muscles around his member tightened and Pat groaned before his jaw clenched shut, his eyes narrowing.

His arms moved to clasp Tate's shoulders, pulling his upper frame upwards. The smaller spectre had a moment to widen his eyes before he felt thick fingers enclose his throat and squeeze. His own fingers immediately moved to grasp at the hands around his skinny neck but through he dug his nails in the flesh he didn't try to prey them loose. The air was knocked out of his lungs by Pat's continuous chaotic drilling but he couldn't get it back. His eyes widened and his mouth opened uselessly, choked sounds rolling down his slack tongue, and he felt himself slipping. He felt the dizziness and the pain burning inside his chest and it was the final push. Every sensation was intensified and it just seemed to consume him, like nothing he'd ever done before did...Not even killing.

Pat groaned louder when he felt Tate's release shake his body. His hands clenched even harder, vaguely aware of the thin arms falling by the boy's side, too heavy to hold up any longer. His climax took him by surprise, the intensity of it crashing down on him like a destructive wave and he drowned. It ignited his veins like fire and sparked through his nerves like thunder. Patrick hadn't felt this alive when he had been living...Being dead allowed him to do the one thing which was inscribed in the core of every living thing but which humanity sought to supress. It allowed him to be feral regardless of consequences. It allowed him to be the killer every man, woman and child was deep down inside.

Speaking of killing, Pat glanced over Tate's boneless body while attempting to steady his breathing. His hands were still collared around the other's neck and he reluctantly unclasped them, quickly catching Tate's upper body to prevent him falling to the floor like the dead weight he was. Violent purple and red lines encircled the throat and Tate's unseeing eyes stared accusingly at him. But instead of feeling guilt, all Pat felt was amusement. He smirked at the dead ghost, knowing he will be re-animated without so much as a trace of evidence in a few minutes, while pulling his top back down over his head. He turned to head for the door without another backwards glance, in the mood for a lazy nap.

'And you call me a sick psycho...' Pat glanced at Tate, pausing for a second at the threshold. The other was leaning against the wall, the blood washed clean by invisible hands, still naked but without any trace of foul play marking his pale skin.

'That's because you are one.'

'True...But you have a pretty twisted side to you as well. Admit it.' Tate ran his thumb over his own throat, tracing the bruises which had been there. His eyes gleamed with some sort of triumph, though Pat had no way of knowing what went on in that mind and frankly he didn't really want to either.

'I'm nothing like you.' Patrick knew he was lying and so did Tate. It took one to know one... The older man left before Tate could tempt him any further into doing something he might later regret. But despite feeling some guilt at his behaviour it was nothing compared to the euphoria. A crescent moon grin stretched over his lips as his steps echoed down the haunted hallways. He was far worse than Tate...

And now you know what I meant when I said I was insane...X3 Well, hope you liked and please review if u can. Thanks in advance! X3