Warning: Incest – if you don't like it, that's totally cool, just don't read, okay? Bullying, underage drinking, smoking, drug use, suggestions of abuse. If you are uncomfortable with any of these things you may not want to read.

Tate & Violet, Rated – M

Disclaimer – I do not own American Horror Story. Only the idea for this fic is mine.

Tumblr: avermilionvermiciousknid & drollicpixiefanfic

A/N: SO - I HAD A BABY! Wow. That happened. Quite awhile ago now too. But that put a serious cramp in my time to write. Because in my free time I like to eat, pee alone, wash some clothes (so we don't smell), shower, or SLEEP. Writing took a serious backseat. But this has been languishing all but done for months, maybe a year. So here it is. THE FINAL CHAPTER! Enjoy and my apologizes for any inconstancies, issues with editing, etc. It's been awhile and my brain is mostly made of mush these days. THANKS!

Summer, 1991 – Part 2

Constance Langdon looked in her son's room, her daughter's. Both empty. She continued down the hall, saw the ladder to the attic pulled down. Eyeing the rungs before her she did not venture up but instead strode to the end if the corridor to look out the large window there.

Violet lay on a towel, sunning herself in the secluded rear yard, pink bikini bottoms, back bare. She had never known the girl to show interest in browning her flesh, working up a good healthy glow. Her hair was knotted on the top of her head, out of the way, and a small black radio played beside her. If it weren't for the likely god awful depressing music she would have chosen, Constance almost could have imaged the scene out of her own teen years. And that was exactly what made her suspicious, uncomfortable. Because the girl was nothing like her. Not really.

The floor boards above creaked with the shifting of weight. Tate was up there, in the attic. Likely perched before the small grimy window facing just the direction his mother was, looking down on his sister, there in her near naked glory.

Tate wanted to run his tongue along her spine, taste her sweat.

Violet hoped he was watching.

The girl stretched like a cat, long lean lines and straining muscles, ligaments, sinew. Lifting herself slightly, getting comfortable, adjusting her towel. It was all an act, a show, a display for the boy above, her mother knew, saw. It was filthy. Ungodly. Violet's chest, still mostly undeveloped, came into view, the sides of her breasts catching the sun before disappearing once more.

Constance imagined her son, enthralled. Probably dirtying himself further, laying hands on his body. Ungentlemanly behavior, sin.

She drove him to it, the girl. The boy wasn't naturally bad, sullied, like his sister was. But she would drag them both down into the pits of hell and fire. And without a thought. If she truly loved her brother she would find some decency, show some respect. But there was nothing respectful about Violet. Nothing at all.

Their mother shook her head, perfectly coiffed blond hair held in place by a can of Aquanet, her lips pursed. That girl needed a good slap and by god, she was going to get it. At that Constance Langdon stormed down the hall, the stairs, through the foyer and the kitchen, out the side door and into the yard.

"Violet!" she hollered, voice an angry smokers rasp. "You little slut," she seethed, moving in closer, stalking toward the girl who swung her head is surprise, mystification. There was a flash of hurt, pain, on her youthful face, and her mother rejoiced that she wasn't quite the block of ice she portrayed herself to be, that weak spots remained in her armor. "Stop putting on that obscene show and get yourself inside this instant!"

The younger woman's eyes steeled over, grew hard rapidly. She did not move.

Constance stood over her, glowering, a menace, and hissed, glancing right then left before bending to grab the child's arm and tugging roughly, yanking her up. Violet came with a squawk, a protest, rising up onto her knees as her mother's painted red fingernails tore into her flesh. "Mama!" she half yelped, half commanded, trying to wrench herself free.

"My god," the older woman gasped at her daughter's nudity, her lack of shame, of propriety. "Have you no decency?"

"Violet!" A voice boomed from behind, Tate running to his sister's rescue, face red, eyes like coal. His mouth was a gash across his visage, terrible and frightening. "Get off her," he screamed at his mother, shoving her away and dropping down beside the girl, gathering her up, to him. She unabashedly went to him, melted against him, her bare body clutching his clothed one. Her brother turned to their mother, "Stop it, Mama." His tone was cold, as frozen as the flint in his eyes, spine rigid. There was something about him, his growing anger, hatred, that made Constance nervous. But she ignored it as she had done for some time.

The woman raised up a palm, ready to strike the boy, as her son, in a learned reaction shied away, leaned back with Violet still in his arms. Instead she narrowed her eyes and threw her hands up in the air, "Oh, you!" She pointed a long manicured finger first at the girl and then at Tate. "I wash my hands of you, both! I will not be a slave to your redemption!" They only stared back blankly.

When she had gone, returned to the house, her room, her bottle, Violet spoke, voice muffled against her brother's t-shirt, "She'll forgive you for anything," and sighed. Her brother shrugged, stroked his sister's hair. He knew she was wrong, that Mama wouldn't forgive him everything, because somethings were unforgivable. And those were the things he wanted most of all.

Tate pulled back, gaze raking down his sister's bare chest to her tiny pink bikini bottoms but she didn't flush, didn't flinch. In fact, Tate swore he caught a hint of a smile, a smirk, something of triumph in her eyes, before she glanced away. "Are you okay?"

She half shrugged, "Yeah, I guess. She just," another helpless lift of her shoulder, "fucking hates me. But thanks," Violet squirmed, "for protecting me," and dropped her head down to rest against him once more.

His reply was almost lost against her hair as it stuck to his lips, invaded his mouth. "It's all I've ever wanted to do, since I first saw you." And her small hands clutched him even tighter.

Violet sat in her room, the window open, her bare feet perched on the sill, a cigarette burning between her fingers. And she thought, nibbled her lip, chewed at the corner of her mouth, took a drag, exhaled. There was nothing she could do and she knew it. She could no longer deny him. Herself. Her wretched black misshapen heart. Tate loved her. She knew he did. Wholly and completely. And entirely not like a brother should. They were meant to be. To be one. There was nothing else, no one else. And it had always been coming to that. Since the day she was born, he was born, maybe even before, long ago, buried somewhere in the frightening recesses of their family's past.

She hated herself a little bit for even thinking such a sappy, ridiculous, sentimental thing. But she couldn't help it. The thoughts, feelings, came unbidden. Her heart swelled with it. And she decided that she was done, hiding, running away, from Tate, her true self, from what she wanted. Needed. Not after his confession, his body pressed so close to her own, the heat of him coming through his t-shirt, radiating against her bare naked flesh. She broke out in goose bumps just thinking about it. His hot heat warming her cold flesh, her icy heart, melting into him.

But she needed to find the right way to approach him, to do it, give in, surrender herself, finally, after all that time. Violet would give her brother her virginity but on her own terms. She would make him beg for it, pant, die. And she, once and for all, would be triumphant, the winner of the biggest game they had ever played.

Tate crawled up the bed, first one knee over the iron footboard, then the next, creeping. She was laid out on his bed; hot, sweaty, legs crossed at the ankle, dress riding up her thighs to expose milky flesh. Violet didn't glance up, didn't bat an eye, said nothing, focused entirely on her book. A thin black volume, battered and obviously used, The Holy Terrors. He smirked reading the title.

Her brother licked his lips, watching her like a predator ready to strike. She turned the page. His hand was on her ankle, palm slipping over the boney bump there and sliding upward to her calf. Still nothing. He wanted to grab the fucking book out of her lax grip, toss it over his shoulder, and fill her hands with his cock. He hated when she ignored him. He wanted to strip her out of the frumpy boxy short little dress she was wearing. Unwrap her like a present until she was bare before him, blushing and perfect, pink tipped breasts calling to be sucked, pussy begging to be filled.

But she was Violet. The real Violet. Not his fantasy Violet. And she would smack him or scream at him, tell him to go fuck himself, shove at him until he let her go, leave him. Tate was so fucking tired of her leaving, walking away. Like she didn't feel it, didn't want it.

He had seen her touching herself, fingers buried so deep in her cunt that her wrist almost disappeared from sight. She would tuck her bottom lip between her teeth, squirm and pant, eyes closed, naked and writing on her bed. Violet always put her knees up, feet planted on her mattress, when she fucked herself. Legs wide open like she wanted to be seen. But maybe his sister just had no idea how often, how closely he watched her. It had been growing increasingly worse over the past year. Since that first real fucking kiss. The one with tongues and teeth, her hand dropping to brush his cock, accidentally or not, in that moment his brain had backfired, wires and synapses breaking, falling away, only to be built back up entirely different. Making the only thing he could truly want, truly focus on, fucking his sister. It didn't help that whenever she, they, were bored they would end up rolling around on the floor, dry fucking or whatever. Until she cut him off, no explanation, no reason, just one day refused him.

Tate playful tugged at her leg, waited. When she did nothing, only continued to ignore him his fingertips climbed, inching toward her knee and still she did not look up. He grew bold then, plucking the book out of her hand to a huffing protest, and dragged her toward him. Her legs opened, parted, like magic, like when they had once played 'Daddy and the Maid', in that very spot, though on a much smaller bed, and he pressed himself against her. Violet lifted one smooth brow, her lips quirking suspiciously, displeased perhaps.

Tate knew she felt it, the hot, throbbing bulge of him, nudging her center, but she only stared back up at him, waiting, growing impatient. And that, the way she looked at him, almost accusingly, drove him to distraction, displeasure. Why was nothing good enough for his sister anymore? Why wasn't he good enough? He had been, on numerous occasions. But she never let him fuck her, no matter how wet she was, how her hips lifted off the floor, begging without words to be filled, made complete.

Eventually it became clear that he was boring her, disappointing her. How could he be disappointing her? He was the disappointed one, the abused, unloved one.

Violet put her palms to his chest and pushed, shoved him aside with her dainty scarred wrists. Tate crashed onto the mattress beside her, glancing down, catching sight of the tent at his crotch and sighed. His sister got up from the bed, shot him one last baleful glance and strode from the room, book in hand. His eyes squinted against the sunlight coming from behind the curtains as he grabbed for a smoke, his lighter, lit the stick and inhaled. "Fuck," he muttered lowly on the exhale, head falling between his bent knees.

"Violet," he sing-songed up the steps to the attic, "come out, come out, wherever you are. He still wasn't sure how he had convinced her to play hide and seek after all her previous refusals. Tate loved games. Especially that one. He would pretend that he was a cat, stalking, prowling after its prey, and his sister was the little mouse, hiding in its hole, nervous and twitching with adrenaline as it sat in wait of its terrible fate. Violet said their games were childish, that he should grow up. But why would he want to do that when he could be having so much fun?

He didn't always like the grown up version of Violet. She was moody and difficult, she said no to him, sneered at him, rolled her eyes and pushed him away. And every time it made him want her more; to touch her, have her, possess her, bend her will. It made him covet her like the most precious prize in the world, made him jealous and vicious and violent.

But his sister hadn't even bothered to hide. She was sat on the old boards of the floor, right in the center of the room. Tate immediately looked around, waiting for a trap, for the net to fall. There was nothing. Still he approached with extreme caution, annoyed at her refusal to follow the rules, for ruining his game, but intrigued by what she might have in store for him.

When she made no move to get up the boy dropped down in front of her, on his knees, resting back on his heels, the balls of his feet. They stared at one another, neither moving, neither blinking. Her brother reached forward with a trembling hand and then thought better of the action and pulled back suddenly.

"What's wrong, Tate?" Violet whispered into the silent air around them, an unexpected mean little smirk appearing on her lips. She lifted herself, straining upward, those sticky plum-stained lips coming to his ear, her lithe tongue darting out to taste the shell before suckling the lobe into her mouth, "don't you want to touch me?" His hands lifted again, hovered at her hips, afraid to move, to breathe, as she got to her knees, mirroring his position, and inched forward. She bit her lip, palm on his chest, nudging him back. Tate rocked backward onto his ass a moment before his sister dropped down onto his lap. For one electric second they were both still, unsure. But the tension broke quickly, quietly, as Tate's hips canted up of their own volition at the same time that Violet commenced a sort of delicious wiggling, hot and demanding on top of him. "I see you watching me," she finally rasped as her mouth caressed his jaw, trailing down the corded tendons of his neck, "see you touching yourself." His eyes slid closed. He clearly wasn't as stealthy as he had assumed, hoped. But she was right there, pressed against his throbbing dick, and when she looked up at him, lips parted, eyes bright, pupils blown wide, he knew she liked it as much as he did. Wanted it, this, him, as much as he did. So while his cheeks flamed momentarily at being caught out, a groan of need slipped out.

"Oh, Violet," he stuttered, finally allowing the tips of his fingers to take hold of her, grasp and squeeze the tight flesh, the boney protrusions of her hips. Fuck, he wanted her. She was the only girl he had ever wanted, ever fantasized about, picturing her mouth bobbing up and down on his cock. He wanted to bury every part of himself so deep inside of her that no one would ever find him again. He would only exist in her sweet little pussy.

His mouth was on hers in a flash, lips mashed together, sloppy and disorganized. He fumbled with her shirt, tugging, trying to pull it down without undoing the buttons of the old flannel, another she had fucking stolen from him. Next was her neck where he sucked and nipped until purple, red bruises bloomed. Violet threw her head back, the tips of her hair brushing the floor, and let a soft little gasp, a sort of moan fall from her open mouth. It was maddening.

With his sister's arms around his neck they rocked backward, though Tate didn't know if it was through his momentum or hers, and landed, Violet in a cloud on the boards, he immediately on top of her. The dust invaded his nostrils and he wanted to cough, or sneeze, but that would have meant removing his lips from her body and that was impossible, unthinkable.

Violet's hips rose, stroking him with her own need. Oh god, he kept thinking. That was what it was like to be needed, wanted, that way. He had almost forgotten, she had refused him for so long. Tate took the moment to lift his own hips and thump into the waiting space between her thighs, making them both gasp. He grinned, mouth back against her sticky parted lips.

His fingers found that place, the one under his too long shirt, covered by sweet wet cotton. He hummed his approval. His fingers coming away wet, tacky, with her. Physical proof of what he knew, felt down to his bones, that Violet still wanted him as much as he wanted her.

There was a rumbling outside through the high window of the attic, a car engine. Then it ended, was cut off, and the squeak of a door followed.

"Fuck," they groaned in unison as the slam of that car door reverberated through the house, up the stairs, and to their small sanctuary.

"It's Mama," Violet told him even though Tate obviously knew who it was. And just like that she was extricating herself from his arms, his hold, slipping away, finger combing her hair, and brushing dirt off her white panties.

"Violet," he huffed, reaching out but she alluded him. Not that he tried as hard as he could have to draw her back, he knew the moment was gone, had escaped him, again, just like his sister.

Without another word she disappeared down through the hatch as Tate grabbed fistfuls of his hair, tugging, and letting out a throaty groan combined with an anguished scream. Fuck his mother if she heard. Fuck Violet. Fuck everything.

He palmed his dick, imagined her sweet pussy, bare and glistening with dew, as the hot water of the shower pounded his head, his shoulders.

Constance had gone out, some man greeting her at the door, smiling like a weasel and offering to meet the kids. She had, in turn, grinned tightly and told him there was no need.

It was for the best. Tate had wanted to punch the guy's smug little face the moment he saw it. And Violet had looked ready for an argument. The moment their mother was gone she turned and stomped up the stairs, fingers running through her hair, tucking the soft strands back into some sort of elaborate braid.

When he strode past her door, minutes later, he found it open, music playing softly, a scratched, warbled record spinning. His sister lay on the floor, stomach flat to the boards, legs kicked up in the air, crossed at the ankle, stupid white knee socks and too short black dress riding up, swaying her legs front to back, a half empty bottle of bourbon beside her, the cap off. He could just see her pale pink panties, the cream colored flesh of her thighs. She was sketching, writing, in that stupid little book of hers, the one Tate wasn't allowed to read, to see. It drove him fucking crazy. Everything in that moment. And when she glanced back at him, over her shoulder, licked her chapped lips, his breath caught, he stepped forward.

"Go away, Tate," Violet grinned, halting him immediately. The boy's eyes narrowed, angry, disgruntled, lost, and he had stormed away, headed straight for the bathroom, the shower, the comfort of his own hand. Screw her, bitch, he thought. But cursing his sister did little good. It only made him think of all the things he wanted to do to her, with her.

And there she was, less than an hour later, sat on the floor, socks pressed against the hardwoods from the smooth bend of her knee down to her calf to the tops of her feet. She was hunting for something, buried under her mattress, between the soft upper and the hard box spring. Tate bit his lip, eyed her, gaze traveling down her spine, each knotted lump, to the thin waistband of those little panties. She had striped out of the dress. And he knew, that was it. The day, the moment. No more squealing or giggling or harsh words, pushing or squirming, wriggling away from him. He was through playing, done with her games, taunts, torments. She wanted it, him. He knew it, felt it in her yielding body, her hot liquid center, the steamy pants on his bare flesh. No more waiting, no more being told to go away only so she could smirk, mock, make him her slave, her weak little puppy. Tate was done being controlled by his little sister.

The boy stepped forward and saw her still but only for a moment before resuming her all consuming task.

Another step. He was biting the skin of his thumb then, plucking, pulling, making it bleed.

"Violet," he started. She didn't turn but he knew she was listening. When he said nothing else, they remained in silence. It stretched as he felt his jeans grow tight, his cock straining as his mind ran through scenarios, plans. Finally she sighed, flicked her messy braid over one shoulder and glanced at him, eyes soft, questioning, and with an edge of impatience.

"What do you want, Tate?"

He was on her like that. It was a reaction, immediate. Grabbing her hair, pulling her backward, against his bare damp chest. Then he was turning her, shoving, dropping her so that her shoulder blades hit the floor. His sister let out a small whoosh of air, surprise painted her beautiful face and he grinned.

She didn't struggle like he had imagined but instead opened to him, for him. Tate falling between her parted thighs, his lips, his teeth and tongue on her pulse point, her clavicle, one rosy tipped nipple.

Violet's hips lifted, straining, brushed against his hard cock. Her hands twined through his tangled wet locks, almost violently tugging his mouth back up to her own.

"Oh god, Tate," she moaned against the side of his head as he slipped fingers into her underwear and between her soaking folds, flicked her clit before plunging deep inside of her.

He was hasty, fumbling, inexperienced. Desperate. Her brother's hands dragged at the scrap of fabric covering her from his view. He wanted to see her, all of her, right there before him, the thing he wanted most in the world, needed most.

When the pink cotton was hanging from one ankle, his eyes having drunk their fill, he moved to his belt, the zipper of his faded ragged jeans, hands shaking. His sister simply stared up at him, her lower lip caught between her teeth, a smile, a twinkle, in her hazel eyes. She didn't look defeated, not in any sense of the word. In fact, Violet appeared nothing like he had envisioned, she looked exactly like she had won. Something hard fought for and desperately wanted. She was triumphant. But Tate didn't have time to think about it, the oddness that was Violet, how her mind worked. Because her small nimble fingers were joining his, freeing his cock, watching as it bobbed up to salute her.

She palmed him, gripped him, guided him back down, toward her sopping clenched entrance. A part of him, small and quiet, weak but kind, reminded him that he could hurt her, make her bleed. But a larger, dominating, jealous, part of him wanted that. So badly. To tear her open, rip through her, make her a woman. Make her his. Bloody her, smear the red stuff down her thighs, all over his dick. Look at it, study it, her, and lock the moment away in his mind forever. It would be his and no one else's. Just like his sister.

Tate's hips canted forward, powerful but clumsy, and nudged her. He didn't enter her and stared for a befuddled second down at his erection, the folds covering her entrance. A quick movement of Violet's hand though and he was poised, the tip of him within her walls. One thrust and he was buried, balls deep, mouth hanging open, his forehead falling her to her shoulder. The shock of it, the feeling. Her heat. Fuck, it was tight. His dick was in a vice.

Violet turned her head back and forth on the floor, eyes closed, lips moist and parted. A huff of air escaped, a muffled moan, something caught between ecstasy and anguish. She had one hand between them pushing at his chest even as the other grasped his bare ass, squeezed, tried to hold him in place.

If he pulled out, he would cum. If he stayed where he was, he would cum. Tate swallowed, embarrassed, but it felt so good. It felt amazing. Inside her. It was nothing like his hand, his spit slicked palm. It wasn't even like being is Violet's hand. It was new and brilliant and he could barely hold himself together.

The decision was taken out of his hands when his sister grunted, shoved a little more forcefully, practically spitting, "Move." A breath, "Fuck, do something." So his hips slipped away from the cradle of her thighs, he pulled out an inch, two, then nearly to the tip and glanced down. The bleeding was minimal, just a couple of spots along his shaft, so he plowed back in, stealing Violet's breath again. "Christ," she cursed against his skin. But her brother had stopped thinking, listening. He was pumping in and out, on his knees, his palms grasping her hips pulling her up his dick, eyes hooded as he watched her.

It was over too quick, he knew, but Violet didn't seem upset about it. She was more concerned with the wet feeling inside of her, the trickle on her thigh, the white goo on her pussy.

"Is that," she let the question trail off.

"What?" Tate looked down, saw her slathered in his cream, his cum, and felt something swell deep inside of him, something monstrous and magnificent but strangely loving in it's possessiveness.

"Your stuff?" she asked him, unsure, lifting one shoulder, running her own fingers along her slit and wincing momentarily.

The digits came away coated, flecked with blood. Tate sat mesmerized as she brought the hand to her nose, sniffed, then to her lips, where she lapped, tilted her head to one side, and sucked, cleaning herself. He swallowed, opened his mouth to pant, breath rasping and harsh.

"I love you, Violet," he said then. "I fucking love you." It had been on the tip of his tongue, maybe forever, but there it was, said out loud, floating in the air between them where he could never retrieve it, reclaim it.

She stared at him, those huge wide eyes, hair a tangled mess, stripped bare except for her socks.

When she made no reply he squirmed, heart thudding.

But then she was up on her knees, his spunk rolling down her thigh toward the hardwoods. Her mouth met his in an angry clash, teeth and spit, tongues, lips. "Tate," she hushed between kisses, "oh, Tate. I love you too."

His palms were on her back, holding her to him. Hers were everywhere, making him alive, his flesh tingling with the ghostly cool feel of her. And then his sister was on her back again, bucking her hips, begging him with her body. And Tate grinned. Their newest game, or whatever it was, was over, finished. He didn't know who had fucking won. He didn't care. He was just excited to see what they would play next.


THANK YOU ALL! For taking this crazy ride with me. For waiting more than a year for my final update. For the reviews and encouragement. I know this is a (kind of? totally?) fucked up story but I loved writing it. Loved taking the characters of AHS Murder House to these places. I'm obviously looking forward to Hotel. And maybe some more free time as our naps over here grow longer. Here's to some new inspiration and time enough to put my words down on "paper". - E.