A/N: I don't know what I'm doing! Somebody take this keyboard away from me! I apologize to everyone who thought I didn't write complete shit. This was just such a great AHS theory and I wanted to write a little drabble based on it. I might write a sequel if I find the time...

Trigger Warning: Faux Incest. Dub Con. Non-Con. (Just to be safe.)

Also, if anyone is looking for a great Violate fic, 'i think i made you up inside my head' by howlsatthemoon is really really fantastic.

Now, let the Tatecest begin.

"Now, explain to me again why you're down here jerking off when that hot little piece is prancing around just upstairs," Langdon sighs from the basement door, jumping over the railing and down to where Tate sits beneath the stairs with one hand pushed into his jeans.

"We broke up," Tate fumes, buttoning up his fly, kicking at Langdon's shins and climbing out of the dusty crawlspace. He brushes at his knees and the seat of his pants, regarding his twin tiredly. "You know that."

Langdon wasn't really Tate's twin. In fact, he wasn't even his brother. They weren't carved out on the same family tree. They didn't share a uterus or blood, but they were identical. Both Tate and Langdon had straw-colored hair and coal-colored eyes set into the same handsome face, with the same sharp jaws and straight teeth. Both wore sweaters that hid hard bodies and both spoke in the same low smooth voice, but they weren't twins.

Tate died alone in his room seventeen years ago. The police killed him because he had a drug problem that suggested he shoot up his friends.

Fifteen kids went to heaven that day.

One sunk into hell.

When Tate woke up in the basement that evening, with a chest full of bullet holes and a numb taste in his mind, he wasn't alone. Curled next to him on the dingy floorboards, wearing an unsettling smile even in sleep, was a boy that looked just like his reflection but would turn out to be twice as mean. Langdon was Tate's double.

Langdon, a name he'd embraced because the name Tate was taken and because he wasn't feeling particularly creative, was a wraith, the original Tate's doppelganger. The darkness that had been growing inside Tate like a parasite ever since his father's disappearing act was gifted a separate body when he died.

Langdon was the worst parts of Tate and the insidious parts of the house dressed up into a recycled pretty face. Not to say that Tate was an angel now, far from it. He still felt the pull of darkness. He still tore at his wrists and he still got hard thinking about murder, but he didn't rape Vivien and he didn't kill Chad or Patrick; that had Langdon written all over it.

Tate only took the rap for it because he didn't know how to tell Violet that when he died the house spawned him a twin without sounding like a fucking lunatic. And worse, what if he had and they'd met and she ended up liking Langdon better than him? Not that any of that mattered anymore…

"Yeah, but I still don't get what's stopping you," Langdon says, inspecting his nails, chewing at the side of his thumb.

"She doesn't want me."

"And?" His eyes flit up from the gnarled groove in his finger to his archetype's face. They're dark, shining with malice, and when he speaks it's slow and deliberate, like pulling the pin on a grenade. "Take her."

Tate loses it, a bestial "shut up!" tearing past his teeth as he surges forwards and throws Langdon against the brick, angling an elbow for his mouth when he bounces back all Cheshire smiles and hissed laughter.

"Don't. Fucking. Start," Tate seethes, punctuating each word with a vicious blow to the gut, burying his knuckles in the faded stripes of Langdon's sweater, his face twisted in unbridled hatred, the halved darkness inside him flaring to life.

They've been over this already. Langdon had taken a liking to tormenting him about Violet, about what he's lost. Maybe he really doesn't understand. Maybe humanity boggles him and he truly thinks people can always just take what they want without repercussions – Tate has learned this lesson ten times over by now – but more likely, Langdon just liked picking away at his twin's splintering sanity, maybe he loved it.

Tate gets in a few more punches before Langdon stops him with a well-placed strike to the groin, still laughing, blood bubbling up between his teeth and down his chin.

In the second Tate recoils and folds over, the edges of his vision gone fuzzy with pain, Langdon's got their positions flipped, only now Tate's front is ground against the wall, his twin's hand fisted into blonde tangles, forcing his cheek into the brick.

"What was that, dear brother?" Langdon sneers through a tight jaw, his chest curved against Tate's back, effectively trapping him in. Darkness made him strong. He fed from it the way an incubus fed from sex. And in a house like this, he would never go hungry.

Tate says nothing, just struggles against his double and claws his fingers into the jagged spaces between bricks, fingernails scraping up against the grout in bottled-fury.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Now where was I…?" Langdon props his chin on the ledge of Tate's shoulder and drums his fingers against the brick. "Oh right." His mouth slides open into a grin, a string of blood streaking past the crease of his lips and down the length of his throat until it's soaked into his crewneck collar. "Violet."

Tate twists at the mention of her name, lashes violently backwards, but is only angled more firmly against the wall for his unruliness.

"What the fuck, Langdon? Get off me!"

"It'd be easy," Langdon presses, his mouth at Tate's ear now, reaching between his brother and the brick with his spare hand, pushing up and under Tate's sweater until his palm is resting against the warm perforated expanse of his twin's stomach. "She's so weak. It wouldn't take much to overpower her - are you taking notes?"

Face screwed up in loathing, Tate chokes out a futile "fuck off" and tries to shrink away. Not this. Not again.

Langdon's fingers trace out a few puckered holes in Tate's abdomen, his navel too, lovingly almost, like Violet would have if he'd ever showed them to her. Then they're smoothing up his chest, rubbing tight circles into the wayward thump of his heart and scratching across one nipple.

"You could just bend her over the table and rip a hole in her tights. There's no way she'd be able to shove you away then. All those easy-access skirts would finally work to your benefit." Langdon's voice is rough now, quiet too, like it's sweet nothings he's whispering into his twin's ear and not a rape how-to.

His eyes have fallen closed and his hand is winding tighter into Tate's hair.

Tate's eyes burn with tears, because of the imagery Langdon's words evoke and because, despite his disgust, they're getting him hot. Or is it his double's breath against his ear and his fingers skirting the waistband of his pants that has him hard as a rock? Either way, the shameful response makes him want to hurl.

Then the tips of Langdon's fingers are dipping down below the start of his jeans, following the sparse trail of blonde hair down from his navel, and huffing out short shallow breaths through his nose, Tate's eyes screw shut and he sags a little in his brother's hold, teeth pressing into his tongue, desperately trying to contain the flurry of rage and sorrow and displaced arousal warring for dominance within.

"Or maybe you could find her when she's sleeping… crawl onto her mattress and pin her thighs open with your knees. Trap her wrists with one hand and pull aside the crotch of her sleepshorts with the other. " Hips lurching forward for Tate to feel the hardness trapped behind his zipper, Langdon clamps down on Tate's ear and drags his teeth over the shell, licking a wet stripe up the curved edge when he pulls off, a lewd groan spilling out into the musky air when he feels the body against his press back.

"What's she feel like, Tate?" Langdon asks, pressing a hot kiss to the space behind Tate's ear, forging a path of them down the muscle of his throat when his head lolls obediently aside. "I bet she's warm inside. And tight." He takes an uneven breath and nuzzles the place where Tate's neck meets his shoulder, pulling in a lungful of his twin's scent - black coffee, copper, and sweat – before sinking his teeth into the soft flesh there.

Tate hisses and swallows against the pain and Langdon rewards him by rolling the patch of skin between his teeth, swabbing at it with his tongue and blowing against it after.

"She died a virgin, didn't she?"

"Enough." Tate's voice is hard and soft at the same time, tortured, torn, and just as Langdon's hand makes to curl around the swollen length of his cock, Tate's asking to be let up and turning around in the small space that Langdon allows him.

Face to face now, they don't look quite so similar. While Tate's face is pulled tight in a frown, Langdon's smiling. His teeth are still smeared crimson and so are the insides of his lips. And his cheeks are appled and full of dimples, just like Tate's used to be, before, when he had Violet. But their polar expressions aren't the only difference; Langdon's eyes have bled black. Not just the irises, but the whites of them too, glossy black edged out against the lip of his eyelids. It happened whenever he was feeding, when anger and fear and shame and sin were seeping in through his pores like sunlight, fueling him, making him strong.

No, Langdon was definitely not Tate's twin.

"Hello, brother," the devil's double breathes fondly, with his hips slotted against Tate's and his thumb tracing the curve of Tate's upper lip.

Tate doesn't respond, just stares dolefully at Langdon and catches his wrist, tasting his brother's thumb with the point of his tongue before pulling the hand away from his mouth altogether.

He can't have Violet, and despite what Langdon thinks, he won't take her. She'd said her goodbyes. This is all he has left. Violet has Ben and Vivien to keep her company for the next hundred years. She has a family to share eternity with. But Tate, without her, he's just got Langdon.

"I love you," Tate says, and the three words sound nothing like they had when he'd said them to her, but even so, after they've dropped off his tongue and into the space between his and Langdon's mouths, he's leaning in close and closing his eyes, hungry for the taste of metal that's smudged over and behind his twin's cherried lips.

A/N: The lovely fantastic Gray Glube has just posted, The Devil's Advocate, a companion piece to this story on her page. It's a Tate/Violet/Langdon and it's absolutely mind-blowing. Go have a read immediately. It's steamy, fucked up perfection.

Thanks for reading!