♥ devinthefab wrote 'Give Up The Ghost' for Mng042197 ♥
Title: Give Up The Ghost
Author: devinthefab
Summary: He would always be a part of her, but she would have to let that part of herself go. AHS fanfic exchange.
Spoilers/Warnings/ Triggers: Cutting/Suicide
Author’s Note: Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story. This is simply my contribution and gift to the AHS fanfic exchange. Oh, italics are flashbacks and such. Yes, it’s that kind of fic.
Give Up The Ghost
Violet
I
She hadn’t left her bed in days; all she could do was lie there in one of his threadbare sweaters and stare at the spot where he once lay at a time which now seemed so long ago now. Her parents both made several attempts to urge her out of her room; her mother with herbal teas and organic cookies. Vivien Harmon was always such the health freak. Her father would only shoot off his facts about mental illness and how it wasn’t her fault.
Funny, because everything felt as if it was her fault; maybe she hadn’t pay enough attention. Ironic, because for the last couple months it only seemed that she paid attention to him, she longed for him and it was like a slow death. She pulls the collar of the putrid yellow sweater, and inhales, trying to capture his scent or what was left of it. It was mostly overpowered by her own scent except for that lingering scent of his.
His yellow sweater lays in a pile of clothes next to his bed and he is stripped down to only his jeans. She lays across his ivory heaving chest, clad in nothing but a purple thermal and brown leggings; her lips run across his collarbone trailing her teeth lightly against him drawing a moan from his lips and his hands to grip her waist tightly. He had such large masculine hands, yet still they always felt so gentle against her.
He speaks between rigid breaths as her lips work against him, sardonically. “What if my mother walks in?”
“Does it matter?” she pulls her lips away from his skin and smirks. “What would Constance do?”
He props himself up on his elbows, his blonde locks thrown in every which way. “Violet Harmon, you little whore.” He mocks in a southern drawl.
Violet wraps her arms around his neck, pulling his body closer to hers. “Tate Langdon, you are god’s gift,” she teases in the same tone of voice.
Tate frowns, his face once so playful is now so pained; he flips them over so he has her pinned to the bed, gently. “I am not perfect,” he sighs, nuzzling Violet’s neck. “I am fucked up, I hate this place, you’re the only thing that’s stopping me from-“
Violet cuts him off, placing one of her long delicate fingers against Tate’s lips. “Don’t talk like this, you’re going to stay and we’re going to have all those cliché things; marriage, babies, a beagle” she buries her nose against his shoulder, breathing him in; old books, cigarettes, “Lavender,” she sighs. “You always smell like lavender.”
His body seems to relax at her words about forever, she knew how to work him. “Blame the cocksucker,” Tate mutters, running his lips along her neck. “It’s her perfume, it’s terrible and gets mixed in when she does the wash.”
Violet shakes her head, burying her nose against his shoulder. “I like it,” she mumbles. “It reminds me of you.”
Tate pulls away from her, throwing his arm over the edge of the bed and pulls up his sweater. He sniffs it, grimaces and then hands it to Violet. “Here,” he smirks. “The overwhelming smell of lavender, all for you.”
She takes the shirt and throws it back on to the ground, grabbing his cheeks and pulling his face to hers so that their lips are inches apart. “We don’t need clothes right now,” Violet suggests, playfully before his body covers hers once again.
III
Violet finally gets sick of the house, her own thoughts, and that night she slides a pair of leggings on under his sweater; she jams her striped sock clad feet into her boots and walks down the path to her front gate. She grasps the iron fence in her tiny hands and sighs, looking off across the street at his house. The perfectly mowed lawn, the flowers that seemed to match the house perfectly; Constance Langdon sure had a way with perfection or at least faking it.
Violet felt her chest tighten thinking about the memories in that house, where she had spent her last moments with Tate. Where she discovered the true horrors of his life, where she had once held him, cried with him, laughed with him. That house held so many memories for them, some good, and some bad. Her mind quickly drifting back to their last day there together.
Their clothes have been fully discarded by now, Violet lays pressed against Tate’s strong chest; where the sweat is coming from can no longer be determined and neither of them seem to care. He peppers kisses along her neck drawing out a soft moan from her swollen lips, in this unusually intimate and slow encounter; which were usually fast but nonetheless pleasurable. They had time today though, his mother had taken his siblings out of town for a monthly check up.
Their bodies seemed to be lingering in the constant state of foreplay for what seemed like hours, and when she feels his arousal press against her wet hot heat again, she can’t take it anymore. “Come on,” she whines. “I need you now,” Violet whimpers “Stop bullshitting around, and fuck me,” she growls.
Tate smirks against her skin. “You’re eager,” he murmurs. “I like it.”
He grabs his hard dick positioning himself over her before he thrusts deep into her; Violet bites her lip feeling complete once he is in her. Arching her back she wraps her arms around Tate’s neck holding him close to her, she hated people and never thought being so close to a person could make her feel so alive. His thrusts are slow and deep, almost torturous, though.
“Oh…” she moans into shoulder, before biting down. “Harder, please, harder.”
But he doesn’t move faster, he halts all movements; drawing an agitated groan from Violet’s lips.”I can’t, I don’t want to hurt you.” Tate whispers, pressing his lips to her shoulder.
Violet rolls her head back against the pillows. “Trust me, you’re not hurting me,” she purrs into his ear, seductively.
Tate shakes his head, he still doesn’t speak. “N-no, I can’t.” he stutters, as she rocks her hips up against his in an attempt to urge him to move faster. “I can’t, I am already ruining you,” he breathes.
Violet is angry, and has lost any previous urge in this moment; she pushes him off of her. He rolls off to the side landing next to her, and watches with disappointment as she pulls his sweater over her naked form. While she can just feel the anger boiling in her chest, she wasn’t sure what it was; perhaps just pent up sexual frustration. She just leans back against his headboard, not bothering move because she already told her parent’s she was sleeping at a friend’s house.
Violet knits her eyebrows. “What the fuck was that all about?” she growls. “What is this bullshit about ruining me, are you just not attracted to me anymore or some shit?”
Tate sits up quickly, leans against the headboard so he is eye level with her. “NO! No, I think you’re breathtaking.” He reassures her, with a sigh. “My mother…she and I got into it this morning…” He cuts himself off and swallows, harshly. He flops down on his side, not looking at her. “I ruin everything…Just ask my mother…I tarnish everything.”
Violet feels suddenly bad, she lies down next to him; she wraps her arms around his shoulders. She buries his face in her back; squeezing him and planting kisses on his skin. “What can I do?” she whispers. “Tell me what I can do.”
“Hold me now, just hold me,” he mutters, breathlessly.
“I can do that.”
It’s barely audible, but she can hear it just so. “But then let me go.”
IIII
She finds him the next day, she is soaked in his blood and he isn’t breathing, there are two vertical slits in his wrist. Apparently, his mother had heard them the time she was home and threatened him for fucking around with his therapist’s daughter. She had yelled at him, told him that it would ruin his life. That apparently had done nothing, until she brought up Violet, and then that was the end of Tate Langdon.
Violet, days later, stands in that yellow sweater by the ocean; she can’t swim but Tate always brought her to his special spot on the beach to make out or just be alone. It was days since the incident and the hole in her heart didn’t want to mend, and she didn’t want it to mend. She just wanted to be with Tate.
So she steps into the water and goes deeper and deeper in the water; it feels heavy against her. But she likes the feeling, the sweater clings to her, he clings to her and the deeper she goes the closer she feels to him, the closer she is to him.
Or is she?
FIC PROMPT
Preferred Character: Tate/Violet
Squicks/Character Pairings You Do Not Want: No Slash or Femslash or anything like that please.
Possible Scenarios/Themes/Lines to incorporate: I like drama and I like dark story lines...I'm open to anything really and I'm sure the wonderful writers in this fandom will deliver :) Ghosts are always great...but I also would prefer that Violet and Tate are alive.
Preferred Rating: M for sure...lots of love
Strictly Canon, AU, Doesn’t Matter: AU
Song to describe the overall theme I'd like: Give Up the Ghost by Radiohead
**Mystery Author - Please remember that if you're going to reply to reviews/comments - please do so without logging in and revealing yourself. Anon comments are allowed.
Author: devinthefab
Summary: He would always be a part of her, but she would have to let that part of herself go. AHS fanfic exchange.
Spoilers/Warnings/ Triggers: Cutting/Suicide
Author’s Note: Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story. This is simply my contribution and gift to the AHS fanfic exchange. Oh, italics are flashbacks and such. Yes, it’s that kind of fic.
Give Up The Ghost
Violet
I
She hadn’t left her bed in days; all she could do was lie there in one of his threadbare sweaters and stare at the spot where he once lay at a time which now seemed so long ago now. Her parents both made several attempts to urge her out of her room; her mother with herbal teas and organic cookies. Vivien Harmon was always such the health freak. Her father would only shoot off his facts about mental illness and how it wasn’t her fault.
Funny, because everything felt as if it was her fault; maybe she hadn’t pay enough attention. Ironic, because for the last couple months it only seemed that she paid attention to him, she longed for him and it was like a slow death. She pulls the collar of the putrid yellow sweater, and inhales, trying to capture his scent or what was left of it. It was mostly overpowered by her own scent except for that lingering scent of his.
His yellow sweater lays in a pile of clothes next to his bed and he is stripped down to only his jeans. She lays across his ivory heaving chest, clad in nothing but a purple thermal and brown leggings; her lips run across his collarbone trailing her teeth lightly against him drawing a moan from his lips and his hands to grip her waist tightly. He had such large masculine hands, yet still they always felt so gentle against her.
He speaks between rigid breaths as her lips work against him, sardonically. “What if my mother walks in?”
“Does it matter?” she pulls her lips away from his skin and smirks. “What would Constance do?”
He props himself up on his elbows, his blonde locks thrown in every which way. “Violet Harmon, you little whore.” He mocks in a southern drawl.
Violet wraps her arms around his neck, pulling his body closer to hers. “Tate Langdon, you are god’s gift,” she teases in the same tone of voice.
Tate frowns, his face once so playful is now so pained; he flips them over so he has her pinned to the bed, gently. “I am not perfect,” he sighs, nuzzling Violet’s neck. “I am fucked up, I hate this place, you’re the only thing that’s stopping me from-“
Violet cuts him off, placing one of her long delicate fingers against Tate’s lips. “Don’t talk like this, you’re going to stay and we’re going to have all those cliché things; marriage, babies, a beagle” she buries her nose against his shoulder, breathing him in; old books, cigarettes, “Lavender,” she sighs. “You always smell like lavender.”
His body seems to relax at her words about forever, she knew how to work him. “Blame the cocksucker,” Tate mutters, running his lips along her neck. “It’s her perfume, it’s terrible and gets mixed in when she does the wash.”
Violet shakes her head, burying her nose against his shoulder. “I like it,” she mumbles. “It reminds me of you.”
Tate pulls away from her, throwing his arm over the edge of the bed and pulls up his sweater. He sniffs it, grimaces and then hands it to Violet. “Here,” he smirks. “The overwhelming smell of lavender, all for you.”
She takes the shirt and throws it back on to the ground, grabbing his cheeks and pulling his face to hers so that their lips are inches apart. “We don’t need clothes right now,” Violet suggests, playfully before his body covers hers once again.
III
Violet finally gets sick of the house, her own thoughts, and that night she slides a pair of leggings on under his sweater; she jams her striped sock clad feet into her boots and walks down the path to her front gate. She grasps the iron fence in her tiny hands and sighs, looking off across the street at his house. The perfectly mowed lawn, the flowers that seemed to match the house perfectly; Constance Langdon sure had a way with perfection or at least faking it.
Violet felt her chest tighten thinking about the memories in that house, where she had spent her last moments with Tate. Where she discovered the true horrors of his life, where she had once held him, cried with him, laughed with him. That house held so many memories for them, some good, and some bad. Her mind quickly drifting back to their last day there together.
Their clothes have been fully discarded by now, Violet lays pressed against Tate’s strong chest; where the sweat is coming from can no longer be determined and neither of them seem to care. He peppers kisses along her neck drawing out a soft moan from her swollen lips, in this unusually intimate and slow encounter; which were usually fast but nonetheless pleasurable. They had time today though, his mother had taken his siblings out of town for a monthly check up.
Their bodies seemed to be lingering in the constant state of foreplay for what seemed like hours, and when she feels his arousal press against her wet hot heat again, she can’t take it anymore. “Come on,” she whines. “I need you now,” Violet whimpers “Stop bullshitting around, and fuck me,” she growls.
Tate smirks against her skin. “You’re eager,” he murmurs. “I like it.”
He grabs his hard dick positioning himself over her before he thrusts deep into her; Violet bites her lip feeling complete once he is in her. Arching her back she wraps her arms around Tate’s neck holding him close to her, she hated people and never thought being so close to a person could make her feel so alive. His thrusts are slow and deep, almost torturous, though.
“Oh…” she moans into shoulder, before biting down. “Harder, please, harder.”
But he doesn’t move faster, he halts all movements; drawing an agitated groan from Violet’s lips.”I can’t, I don’t want to hurt you.” Tate whispers, pressing his lips to her shoulder.
Violet rolls her head back against the pillows. “Trust me, you’re not hurting me,” she purrs into his ear, seductively.
Tate shakes his head, he still doesn’t speak. “N-no, I can’t.” he stutters, as she rocks her hips up against his in an attempt to urge him to move faster. “I can’t, I am already ruining you,” he breathes.
Violet is angry, and has lost any previous urge in this moment; she pushes him off of her. He rolls off to the side landing next to her, and watches with disappointment as she pulls his sweater over her naked form. While she can just feel the anger boiling in her chest, she wasn’t sure what it was; perhaps just pent up sexual frustration. She just leans back against his headboard, not bothering move because she already told her parent’s she was sleeping at a friend’s house.
Violet knits her eyebrows. “What the fuck was that all about?” she growls. “What is this bullshit about ruining me, are you just not attracted to me anymore or some shit?”
Tate sits up quickly, leans against the headboard so he is eye level with her. “NO! No, I think you’re breathtaking.” He reassures her, with a sigh. “My mother…she and I got into it this morning…” He cuts himself off and swallows, harshly. He flops down on his side, not looking at her. “I ruin everything…Just ask my mother…I tarnish everything.”
Violet feels suddenly bad, she lies down next to him; she wraps her arms around his shoulders. She buries his face in her back; squeezing him and planting kisses on his skin. “What can I do?” she whispers. “Tell me what I can do.”
“Hold me now, just hold me,” he mutters, breathlessly.
“I can do that.”
It’s barely audible, but she can hear it just so. “But then let me go.”
IIII
She finds him the next day, she is soaked in his blood and he isn’t breathing, there are two vertical slits in his wrist. Apparently, his mother had heard them the time she was home and threatened him for fucking around with his therapist’s daughter. She had yelled at him, told him that it would ruin his life. That apparently had done nothing, until she brought up Violet, and then that was the end of Tate Langdon.
Violet, days later, stands in that yellow sweater by the ocean; she can’t swim but Tate always brought her to his special spot on the beach to make out or just be alone. It was days since the incident and the hole in her heart didn’t want to mend, and she didn’t want it to mend. She just wanted to be with Tate.
So she steps into the water and goes deeper and deeper in the water; it feels heavy against her. But she likes the feeling, the sweater clings to her, he clings to her and the deeper she goes the closer she feels to him, the closer she is to him.
Or is she?
FIC PROMPT
Preferred Character: Tate/Violet
Squicks/Character Pairings You Do Not Want: No Slash or Femslash or anything like that please.
Possible Scenarios/Themes/Lines to incorporate: I like drama and I like dark story lines...I'm open to anything really and I'm sure the wonderful writers in this fandom will deliver :) Ghosts are always great...but I also would prefer that Violet and Tate are alive.
Preferred Rating: M for sure...lots of love
Strictly Canon, AU, Doesn’t Matter: AU
Song to describe the overall theme I'd like: Give Up the Ghost by Radiohead
Click to view**Mystery Author - Please remember that if you're going to reply to reviews/comments - please do so without logging in and revealing yourself. Anon comments are allowed.