A/N – This is the first of a series. Following chapters will not be sequential though they will all tie in together.
Tate and Violet are brother and sister, living, in death, in the Murder House. This it the story of their lives there, how they came to be, and what they will become.
Warning: Incest – if you don't like it, that's totally cool, just don't read, okay?
Tate & Violet, Rated – M
Disclaimer – I do not own American Horror Story. Only the idea for this fic is mine. Title comes from the song by The Buzzcocks.
"...and that they hadn't heard us call; still did not hear us, calling them out of those rooms where they went to be alone for all time, alone in suicide, which is deeper than death, and where we will never find the pieces to put them back together." - The Virgin Suicides (Suicide Underground)
"Wake up, big brother," she whispered in his ear, voice soft, breath warm.
"Shut up," he grumbled back at her, swatting the air her face had inhabited as she laughed, leaning away from his hand.
He groaned, "Why?"
She lifted a shoulder, cocked her head. Nothing outwardly bothered Violet. Not like it annoyed the fuck out him. The thought of, the mere mention, of the woman who birthed them, made his blood boil. "She wants to talk?" His sister suggested. "Or to coo over her lost babies?" Grinning wickedly she theorized, "Maybe the bitch has cancer and is going to die a slow death."
"Yeah," he glared up at the ceiling, "like we were ever that lucky. She'll probably live to be a-fucking-hundred years old and then she'll manage to die in this house and we'll be stuck with her rotting southern corpse for all eternity."
"I hate her," Violet breathed. "What you did," she nodded, "she made you. She's the reason we're here."
"Yeah," he repeated, closing his eyes, blond head nudging her thigh as she perched on the edge of the mattress. Violet had never blamed him for anything he did, no matter how sick, how wrong. She was the only person who saw him through rose-colored glasses. A perfect boy. A perfect brother. "But what about you?"
"I blame her for that too," she told him, picking a thread from the quilt draped across his waist. They'd had this conversation before. A hundred times. It bored her.
"For you fucking offing yourself with an entire bottle of her Valium?"
Her reply was a hiss.
Violet moved as if to get up but her brother stopped her, one clawed fist around her fragile wrist, gripping her furiously.
He stretched like a cat, not letting her go, "You could have gotten away from here, from her, you know."
"Yeah, maybe I could've," she shrugged, glaring down at him. "Or maybe you just shouldn't have shot up those kids at Westfield and got yourself pumped full of bullets, fucker." His onyx eyes burned a hole through her. "You left me alone with the wicked witch. What did you think would happen? I'd live happily ever after?" Her free palm brushed his naked shoulder, "Without you?"
Face still twisted with anger she turned, climbing atop him, sitting on his stomach, sliding a leg down either side of his torso.
Tate knew what she liked, what she craved. He bucked his hips upwards while snatching her other wrist, guiding her body back to rest on his straining dick. Her pussy burned him through his threadbare boxers, babydoll dress riding up her thighs, the buttons down the front already undone to her waist, tattered cardigan slipping from her slight shoulders.
Violet wasn't much for clothes. Not in life. Not in death. And it was one of the things he loved most about her. She just didn't give a fuck about anything normal girls cared about. She liked black roses instead of red. Nirvana, grunge, and seedy clubs instead of bubblegum pop music and the mall. Doc Marten's, record shops, cheap smokes, shitty skunk weed, plastic handles of vodka made in some-shit-town Jersey.
His sister was the only person in the world, the entire fucking universe, that he could stand to be around. That he didn't want to throttle, garrote, disembowel. Though sometimes she slit his fucking throat, just to watch him die, to smile down at him, hands slathered in his blood. He'd wake up hard, his cock in her mouth, and knew she only did it out of love. That was just them.
She was breathing hard, rocking against him, as he moved to clutch her wrists in one hand, the other wrapping around her waist, lifting her small body, and flipping, rolling, her onto her back.
"Tate," she whined as he stretched her arms above her, pulling, straining her muscles to the edge of pain.
"Violet," he breathed against her full, parted lips.
"I thought you were going to fuck me," she replied huskily, eyes glassy, as her hips undulated beneath him.
Tate's hand trailed up her inner thigh, tracing patterns on the heated flesh. "Fuck. When you talk like that," but she cut him off with a kiss. Mouth hot, tongue darting past his lips, searching the back of his teeth.
Violet shifted, tugged, managed to free one of her hands. She smirked in triumph as her fingers snaked along the weak elastic of her brother's underwear, slipping inside to grasp his raging erection. "Mmmm," she purred.
"Yeah." His lips were on her throat, her collarbone. His fingers inside of her, pumping, stroking, coaxing, soaked with her need.
"Off," his sister demanded of his boxers as he wiggled, trying, with the aid of her free hand, to shimmy out of them. She giggled, eyes closed in delight, pelvis rising up off of the bed, making his mouth water at the thought of her sweet, bare, pink cunt.
"Tate? Violet?" Their mother's voice rang out. Her brother groaned, infuriated.
"That doesn't work on the living," his sister mumbled into the damp heated skin of his neck, as he released her other hand. Her fingers swept into his hair, nails tracing along his scalp, digging into the flesh, making his spine stretch, his muscles go taut, before dragging down his bare back leaving a map of red, bloody scratches.
And then she was there, in the room, a hand at her throat, her vintage Chanel purse hanging from the crook of an elbow. There was a strangled gasp, before, "You dirty, filthy, little children," her tone was cold, seething. "You were always rotten, both of you," she hissed. "Touching one another, cooing and whispering from the time you were in diapers. I tried to stop you, to curb your disgusting urges for one another. But you wouldn't be stopped, no," her tone was growing in volume, "and look where you ended up. Dead!"
Tate stared down into the lighter eyes of his sister, his jaw clenched, rage over taking his dark, angelic visage. "What do you want?" He ground out. Violet simply peered over his back, studying her mother with the same absent, indifferent, expression she had used throughout her life.
After a long pause where Constance waited, hoped, they would break apart, at least for her sake, if not the sake of propriety, of decency, of morality, she replied, "The house has been sold."
"We know," her daughter told her. "The husband's a shrink," her gaze returned, adoringly, to her brother above her, hand slipping from between their bodies to brush sweat soaked curls away from his forehead. "Tate's going to see him, get the help he needs," she paused, "for his problem." The boy in question stared lovingly down at Violet, mouth smiling, utterly devoted to her.
"Oh," Constance began haughtily, "your brother is the one who needs help, is he? Young lady, you seduced that boy. Your own brother. He always took care of you, from the time you were born, and how do you repay him? By casting him into a world of sin with you. Encouraging him to do unspeakable acts."
"Are you referring to the fact that I fuck my sister, Mother? Or the fifteen kids I murdered?" He asked over his shoulder, pinning her in place with his black gaze.
The mention of it had Violet squirming. Her warm, wet, little cunt sliding against his cock driving Tate to a point of merciless agony. It was bliss.
Constance threw her arms up in exasperation, "I wash my hands of the both of you. You've made your beds, now you'll have to lie in them!"
"Oh god," Violet moaned, "I want to." Tate grinned, thrust his hips into the cradle of her thighs, and dipped his lips down to taste her.
Their mother whirled from the room, disappearing with a huff, a curse, and a wafting cloud of expensive perfume.
"My little seductress," he whispered dirtily, sliding into her ever wet channel.
"My murderer," she replied, head tipped back, exposing her neck, covered in bruises. His lips, his hands, had made a purple and black canvas of her the night before. Every night. For nearly a decade. His sister. His perfect little girl.
He grunted, lifted her thigh, and surged forward mercilessly, hitting a soft, warm barrier, her womb, making her shudder violently.
Tate hummed his pleasure against her breast, did it again.