Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want

This story is AU. The Harmon family purchases the house from Larry's family (their estate) in 1994. Larry died in the fire with his wife and daughters so Constance and her children never moved back into Murder House. Tate has not yet committed the school shooting and is alive. Rated M.

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of American Horror Story. Only this small piece of fiction is mine.

Author's Note: This week I binge watched AHS for the first time and when I finished, just about watched it through again. And it's been a long while since I wrote a fanfic so I thought I would try my hand at something Violet/Tate. The following is what poured out of me, a little drunk and a little bored, last night. It might be a chapter story, if I continue working on it..

Los Angeles, California

Early 1994

The first time I see her I am standing in the foyer of the house, Murder House. It's not mine, I don't live in it, but I did and ever since we moved next door I have felt the pull of it, calling me, drawing me back through the carved wooden door. I spend more time here than anywhere else, haunting the now vacant rooms, learning the house's secrets.

A car door slams followed by a series of successive sounds. A man and his wife stand on the lawn. My lawn. Our lawn.

The house pulses with desire. It wants them.

And then she's there, the girl, casting furtive glances up at the structure before her. I dart into the next room, hide myself behind the long, dusty drapes left hanging after Larry and his whole fucking family died in the house. Fuck him, I smirk, fucker deserved what he got.

Turning, I glance out the window again. She's small, tiny. With willowy arms and thin coltish legs, standing stock still, a fluffy little dog clutched to her chest. Flowing brown hair, big doe eyes, and lush pink lips. My fingertips brush the glass in front of me, reaching. Her baggy dress hides the rest of her from view, an oversized ratty cardigan covering her shoulders. I want to rip it off her, shove it down her arms, grip her waist and pull her to me. She's all innocent, naïve maybe, but straight grunge. The Courtney Love to my Kurt Cobain a little voice whispers from the back of my mind.

I should have been at fucking school but Westfield High was hell. I hated it. I ran track, periodically checked books out of the library, but avoided classes, the halls, my fellow students, as much as possible. I didn't have a single fucking friend, I spoke to no one. Not that I cared. The only people in the world I liked were my siblings. Fuck everyone else. But this girl, I continued to study her, my eyes roving over her face, her body. Those slumped shoulders and pale hands. I could fucking like her. If I got the chance.

The real estate agent, Marcy, it's always the same fucking woman, is leading them to the door, inside.

"Isn't it fabulous?" she gushes, droning on about the fixtures, like these people, like anyone, really gives a shit.

They move toward the kitchen, the wife, pretty but not like the girl, states, "It could use a little updating."

"Well, sure it could," Marcy replies, upbeat and optimistic, "but you can't beat this price!"

Their dog starts fucking yapping and I risk peeking around the material of my hiding place. It's standing at the basement door. Stupid mutt.

"Violet, honey, would you go see where Hallie went?"

That's her name. The girl. Violet. I grin, I like it, it sounds like violate, and suddenly all I can think about is being inside of her. All tight wet flesh sucking at me, making me a fucking part of her.

"What are you yapping at?" she shakes her head, walking over, silken locks trailing over her shoulders. And takes a moment to stare at the door as well, my hands ball into fists, fingernails digging into my palms, leaving bloody crescents in their wake. I don't want her down there. Not yet.

I'm jolted back to the conversation taking place in the other room as Marcy sighs, saying, "Speaking of the last owners, full disclosure requires that I tell you about what happened to them."

"Oh god, they didn't die in here or anything did they?"

"Yes, actually. All of them."

"All?" It's the guy. He sounds cocky as shit. I'm already thinking about how he would sound with his fucking throat ripped out, gargling, sputtering, choking on his own blood.

"The family, well," Marcy pauses, looking for the right words, the ones that won't make these people run for it, and I grit my teeth, on edge. "I sold them this house. Lovely couple, two little girls, but she was emotionally disturbed. You never would have known to look at her! But one night she just walked into her children's room, doused it in gasoline and ignited the place. Then right into the room she shared with her husband and did the same thing. They all died in the fire but it was put out before it caused any further damage to the house. Now, those rooms have been cleaned, repaired, redecorated, so you don't have to worry about that at all. But, it was just such a tragedy."

The wife again, "You never know, I guess."

"I do have a very nice mid-century ranch, but it's in the Valley," I nearly screamed, "and you're going to get a third of the house for twice the price."

But then my girl speaks up, her big sad eyes suddenly smiling, her voice sweet like honey, "We'll take it," she smirks. And I slip back behind the curtain, my face nearly splitting in fucking two with pleasure.

The next afternoon, I'm cutting again, as a large moving truck pulls up to the curb. Constance is out with Addie, Beau locked in the attic as usual, as I mill around the front room, watching from the side window. I don't see her, my Violet, except for a momentary flash as she swiftly bypasses the men carrying a couch, slipping through the door and disappearing, her long billowing sweater trailing behind her. I bite my knuckle until I taste blood. I need to be patient. I want to understand her before I approach her. I will make her love me. I just need to know how.

She'll go to Westfield, I am almost certain. And so the next day I wait, standing behind a large, manicured bush in our yard, watching. With twenty minutes until first bell I see her exit the house, call something back, then move down the walk. A part of me, a large part, a part that is practically humming, throbbing, with a urge to be near her, in her, wants me to bump into her, ask her if she's new. But I'm not that guy. And she is not that girl. I know that much already. So I let her go past. Count down from sixty and follow.

Her silken hair is covered by a black hat, sitting far back on her head. I can make her out, observe her from this distance, without her knowing, seeing. The red shift dress she wears sways with each step she takes and there is a shoulder bag slung across her chest. Tights and long sleeves, utterly covered up, and so un-California. I groan. Then she lights a cigarette, drops the match onto the street, and blows a cloud of smoke in the air. My lips quirk upward.

As we enter the school courtyard she moves with purpose, striding through the crowd as they watch her. Their bubblegum high school worlds paling to her beauty, her otherness. And I hate them all the more as they turn, stare, sneer. But I hang back, watch from afar.

Leah, the bitch, and her cronies stop, jump down in front of her, "Oh, my god."

"At least it's not actually wearing flannel," another says.

Violet stares back at them, cigarette dangling between two fingers, "What?"

"Where did you come from? Seattle or something?"

"No," she takes a drag, not amused but seemingly uncaring. "Boston."

"I always heard East Coast bitches were ugly," the third chimes in.

"And frigid," Leah adds, tugging at the sleeve of my girl's shirt.

"You don't even know me," Violet replies, yanking her arm back and away, dropping her stick and stubbing it out with the toe of her black boot. I fucking love her boots. I want them digging into the backs my thighs as I pound into her, little dress up around her waist, tights torn away.

Leah picks up the cigarette from the pavement, "What the hell is wrong with you? People sit here. People eat here."

Violet shrugs; people all around the courtyard are smoking. Butts litter the ground.

With a kind of rarely seen fury Leah grabs onto my girl's shoulder, wrenching her forward. "Eat it," she demands, "or I'm going to kick the shit out of you." The followers, the lemmings, look nervous, try to get the bitch to back off but she won't, not until Violet hauls back and hocks a glob of spit at her. And if I wasn't already hard I would be. As it is I could probably pierce metal. I doubt my dick will ever not be hard again after this.

And when I glance back up at the girls, the crowd around them parts, allowing Violet to run, her hair flying behind her, as she turns and smiles, giggles. Leah is screaming and bullshit but I can't even find the brain power to care, to enjoy it, I am so focused on the red shift dress, the girl inside of it, getting inside of her. My life will never be the same. And I know it. And for the first time, in what feels like a lifetime, I am looking forward to something.

I wonder if Violet and I have any classes together but I would guess that she was at least a year behind me, probably a sophomore, so I opt to skip all of mine. Instead I lurk, wandering the empty halls, the library, watching for her. I see her a couple of times. At lunch she is sat on a low wall smoking, avoiding the cafeteria, just like me. I can see her from my place on the roof, my favorite place to go, to hide, to escape them. Everyone.

That night Constance informs me that our neighbor, Ben, is a shrink, some kind of head doctor, and that she has already made an appointment for me to speak with him. "Fuck!" I shout, smacking my fist firmly into the wall of the hallway. That is not how Violet and I meet.

"Tate," the woman who claims to be my mother hisses, furious, a highball clutched in her hand.

"I won't go."

"You will," she tells me, smug with the finality of it, "or you can get the fuck out of this house, you little shit. You have caused this family enough trouble and heartache for a lifetime."

Only days before I might have thrilled at the chance to waltz out the door, really make her worry. Her precious boy, the only one with half a brain, who had yet to abandon her. But I refused to leave Violet. I couldn't, I wouldn't. She was all I wanted. So I would stay. Until I had her, until we could make our escape together, get the fuck out of this place. And where the fuck would you go, a voice whispered to me, cuttingly. The Murder House was the only place I had ever belonged.

Violet and I could belong there together.

Her second day of school was much like the first. Another baggy sweater, a skirt, covered up, hidden from view. I followed, waited, watched. People whispered, pointed, teased, reminding me of all of the reasons why I wanted to see Westfield burn, cleanse the earth of that unholy, rotten place. And all the shitheads in it.

But I still didn't speak to her. Didn't make eye contact. Didn't get close to her, no matter how many times I wanted to. And she never glanced my way either. I sighed, closing my eyes, and imagined her sweet little pebbled nipples in my mouth, my cock in her cunt.

Later, sat on Ben Harmon's couch, he tells me Mother has already warned him about me. He knows about my fantasies. Or at least the ones involving Westfield. Not the ones involving his daughter. Not yet. That is still a secret, and mine alone to keep or share.

So I tell him about the noble war as I stare into his eyes, my legs crossed one over the other, hair falling into my eyes, fingers beating out a rhythm on my knee.

"I'm calm. I know the secret. I know what's coming and I know no one can stop me, including myself." And I can see it: me, walking down the halls at school, my black jeans, my black coat, my face painted like the mask of death himself. Because that is what they have coming for them. Death.

"Do you target people who have been mean to you or unkind?"

How laughable. That would be every person in the world, let alone at that bullshit place. Instead I say, "I kill people I like." That gets his fucking attention, the pen scribbling furiously at the pad of paper on his lap. Cocky mother fucking asshole. I hate him. "Some of them beg for their life," I add, "but I don't feel sad. I don't feel anything. It's a filthy world we live in. It's a filthy goddamn helpless world, and honestly, I feel like I'm helping to take them away from the shit and the piss and the vomit that run in the streets. I'm helping to take them somewhere clean and kind."

I feel the tendons in my neck straining, my hard on burgeoning, just thinking about it. "There's something about all that blood, man." The fucking pen stops moving, his eyes are wary, fixed on me. "I drown in it." Ben Harmon doesn't even fucking know. He can't. He probably couldn't even if he tried.

There are a lot of things he doesn't know. Like that after this session I plan on meeting his daughter. Wandering around his house until I find her. That it's my moment. I know it, feel it in my bones. The house wants it that way and who am I to argue with the house? Who is he to stand in our way?

"The Indians believed that blood holds all the bad spirits, and once a month in ceremonies they would cut themselves to let the spirits go free," I say finally, head cocked, observing him, voice rough, because I honestly do believe what I am saying. "There's something smart about that. Very smart. I like that." He just stares. "You think I'm crazy."

He thinks that it is a question rather than a statement of fact and replies, "No." Bullshit. I just told him I'm obsessed with blood, with killing. This asshole knows I'm fucking crazy. I know I'm fucking crazy. The voices, inside of my head, they tell me I am. There is no peace, no quiet.

And then the conversation turns to Constance and I want to tell Ben he can go blow himself but instead I let him know what a cocksucker my mother is. Maybe she can give him a go. The whore. Maybe he'll leave his wife. Kill her even. And shack up with mother. We can move back here, home, and I can spend every night buried balls deep in Violet, whispering, corrupting, making her my own. Then again, I almost grin, maybe I can do that without living here.

When I'm done bullshitting with the shrink he walks me to the front door, I step through, wave goodbye and wait for him to retrace his steps. He does without a glance backward to see that I have really gone. I smirk as I ease the door open again, the house remaining quiet, still on my side, always on my side.

The stairs creak and the floorboards groan as I slip past room after room, finally peering into the one that used to be my own. It's filled with feminine things, a bra hangs from the corner of an iron bedframe and I bite my lip.

Violet lives, sleeps, breathes, fuck, touches herself, in my old room. But she's not there. It's empty. A few steps further down the hall I notice the open bathroom door. It's silent but I see a flash in the mirror, know that I have found her.

Blood bubbles out of the lines on her arm and I all but cum in my pants, watching her from the doorway, before she notices me, so intent on her task of cutting, hurting herself. I take a moment, lean against the wooden frame and observe her, hands shoved deep in my pockets, head tilted.

When I eventually speak her eyes snap to mine in the mirror, something flashing there. I am unwanted, uninvited. I have to struggle to keep a straight, serious face. I want her so bad, to rush in, to lick the pooling blood from her near translucent flesh. To pick her up, deposit her on the countertop and rut against her until her eyes roll back, her arms around me, smearing that red liquid all over my neck, my sweater.

"You're doing it wrong," I say, "if you're trying to kill yourself cut vertically," I know she's not but I'm looking for something to say with impact. "They can't stitch that shit up."

With angry, burning eyes she spins around, hair whipping around her, "How'd you get in here?" she demands.

"If you're trying to kill yourself, you might also try locking the door," and with that I leave. Violet stands there as I close said door, eyes wide, lips turned down into a frown, her face worried. But on the other side I'm grinning, eyes bright, hand still on the knob. She'll be thinking of me, I know it.

And I will most definitely be thinking about her. I pat my pocket, the back one, bulging slightly, a pair of gray panties stashed there. They were on the floor by the bed, worn, and smelling like her, like the place I most long to be. That wet little slit where dreams come true.

Later, after I have roughly jacked off, the fabric wrapped snuggly around my dick, I inhale them again. Less Violet, but it's still there if I inhale deep. I dart my tongue out, tasting, before sucking, laving, imagining the exact flavor between her thighs. I sleep with a smile.

The weekend rolls around and then another fucking Monday at Westfield. Such fucking shit. I'm still avoiding Violet; my eyes follow her every movement but I remain ever in the shadows, hidden from her gaze. I wonder if she looks for me, if she knows that we go to the same school. I lurk outside, beneath her, my, window. Like a stalker. Maybe I am one.

She listens to music, sad shit, and walks around in her baggy sweaters, shuffling across the room, silhouetted by the lights in the background. She does not talk on the phone, doesn't stare wistfully out into the night. I don't hear her, as much as I long to, but I can watch her, be with her in my own way.

I have a second appointment with her father on Tuesday. He's put me on meds, some anti-psychotic, something to help me control my violent impulses. He should worry about his girl; already getting into it with the girls at school. She doesn't take shit from anyone, doesn't back down, and when I see her with a bloody lip I nearly lose my shit. I want to wreck those girls but Violet can stand on her own. And my dick hardens again at the thought, making me groan, the letterman walking past gives me a startled, menacing glare before moving on. I ignore him.

In Doctor Harmon's office he tricks me into admitting that I'm skipping his drugs, dropping the pills down the drain one by one. But I'm feeling cocky, tell him the real reason I'm staying off his shit, "I was afraid my big dick wouldn't work."

Ben gives me that cocky shit-eating grin of his, placating me, humoring me like a child, but she's there. I can sense her. Just beyond the door to his office and I want her to think about it, to know. "What?" he laughs.

I'm giggling now, "Yeah, that's why I didn't take the meds. I was afraid my dick wouldn't work." He is standing directly between me and her, dividing us. "Because I met someone," I add seriously, no longer joking, and glance just past his elbow, seeing her there, peeking at me, her face hidden by a swath of shining hair, and I meet her gaze, burning, searing myself there. The only thing I want her to be able to see is me.

Violet is mine and I am about to show her just how much so.

When our session is over and Ben shows me out I double back the same way I did last week, slipping upstairs and peering into her bedroom. This time I find her seated, crossed-legged, on the deep purple comforter, a ragged record warbling in the background, some lonely, lost shit that I have never heard before.

A board creaks under my foot and her chin snaps up but she doesn't look surprised, like she always knew that I would find her again. That this would be routine. That we were meant to be.

"You again," she drawls, eyes rolling, annoyance that sounds forced, in her tone.

I ignore the look and step inside the room. "I'm Tate, by the way," I half smile and drop down to sit on the floor a few feet from the large iron bed.

She cocks a wary eyebrow at me and I can see some of Doctor Harmon in her face, her expression. "What are you doing in here, Tate?"

"Being neighborly," I respond.

"Neighborly," she repeats, not amused.

"Well," I shrug, "I live next door."

"And you like to spy on people when they are alone. In their own bathrooms."

I shrug again, caught out, enamored. Throwing myself on the alter I offer up, "I think we're kind of like kindred spirits."

"How so?" She asks, standing, stepping toward me but not sitting. She is wearing a long sleeved maroon top with a floral dress over top. Like a grunge baby doll. Her lips are pouty, glossy, a berry stained deep pink. That mass of silk she calls hair falls down in her face.

I hold up my wrist, pointing out the jagged scar there, "This one I did when my dad left."

And with a deep swallow, her lips parting, she sits down across from me on the floor, her full-skirted dress flouncing out around her, covering her knees. Violet holds up her own wrist, the mirror image of my own, showing me a ladder rung of crusted and healing cuts. Her finger points to the two most recent wounds, "Last week. First day at my new school. Sucks." She is so blasé about it, her fine brows drawing in as her large hazel eyes pierce right through me, seeing me, really seeing me.

"Westfield, right?" I commiserate, waiting, grinning inside, "The worst." She nods her ascent. "I go there."

I have surprised her, I can see it, but immediately her mouth lifts into a manner of a smile. "I've never seen you there."

"I guess I don't go that much," I reply flippantly even though, since Violet began at school, I have at least walked through the gates every day.

"I hate it here. I hate everyone. All their bourgeoisie designer bullshit. Fuck. I buy my clothes at the Salvation Army." She shakes her head, disgusted, "East Coast was much cooler. Like, people just got it, you know?"

"Did you have to leave a lot of friends out there?" I glance down at my crotch, notice my cock twitching, just being there, with her, smelling her, it's too much. "A boyfriend?"

Violet laughs mirthlessly, a smirk already twisting her lips. "No. I guess I'm just not very friendly," and lifts a shoulder helplessly. "I don't play well with others."

"I know," I grin, pride in my voice, "I've seen you with Leah and those cunts."

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes at the same time and I don't know how she makes it so sexy but I want to kiss her. Just lean forward and press my lips to hers, melt into her, hold her. I bite my lip until I taste copper. "God," she moans and it is the sexiest sound I have ever heard, "you saw that?"

"I see a lot of what you do." And I suddenly worry that I am overplaying my hand, losing the small touch of mystery that I have, my weak advantage. A worthless advantage when faced with her pouting mouth.

Her eyes go wide and I honestly think, for a moment, that she is going to stand up and toss my sorry ass out the door, leaving me worse off than when I began but then something changes and she smirks, a small lifting of one side of her mouth that looks sexier on her than any one should be allowed to be. "So, how come you've never even said so much as hi to me at school?"

My own eyes get wide as I reply, tucking my bottom lip in with my teeth, "Scared, I guess." And the way she looks at me, I know that I am saying all of the right things.

"Scared? Of me?"

"Well," I smile, letting the dimple show, and running a hand through my messy, dirty bleached locks, "you are pretty fierce."

"Me?" She repeats, just a little bit stunned.

"And you know," I glance away, around the room, playing shy, and thinking about where my own bed was compared to hers. How I would happily fuck her anywhere in the room, beds be damned. "You're beautiful too."

I expect her to squeak, to be pleased, to question me, but Violet does none of those things. Instead her mouth quirks, eyes twinkling, and leans forward, closer to my personal space. I match her stance, sharing her air, and tuck a single strand of hair behind her ear.

The record ends, going round and round, silent. I hold her gaze, pulling her toward me with my eyes, but she manages to break away, her gaze flickering to the old portable record player ten feet away from us on the floor. "I'm gonna," she trails off, crawling away. Watching her, on her hands and knees, her dress falling away and giving me a glimpse of the body underneath, my eyes begin to roll back in my head. I'm forced to look away before I pounce, throw her on the ground, press my body between her thighs, and grind my straining, hard cock into her soft, wet little center. It's too soon, I urge myself. I need to bide my time. Make her mine, wholly, utterly, completely. I'm going to taint her. Make her black, like me, like my soul. But when she turns her head around, looks right at me, seeing me, my eyes, watching her, I wonder if there isn't already a darkness there.

As she flips through albums, studying them, before looking to me, studying me, she asks, "Why are you seeing my dad?"

"Don't ask questions you already know the answer to. You're smarter than that," and I expect an eye roll, a cutting remark, but my girl, she surprises me again and again. She smiles, tilting her head, hair brushing her arm, as she settles down, once more cross-legged on the rough hardwood floorboards.

"What do you want to listen to," she asks me. "What do you like," but her Cheshire grin tells me that she already has a good idea.

I ask anyway. "Got any Kurt Cobain?"

"You like Nirvana, huh?"

"Don't you?"

"They're alright," she tells me, her fingers steadily paging through the records before her. "I love The Smiths. Morrissey is so cool and he's pissy and he hates everyone and everything."

I cock my head, "What about Alice in Chains?"

Just as she is asking, "Do you like the Lemonheads?" We grin, matching toothy smiles, just looking at one another. We're falling in love already. Just like that. It is that easy. Violet will love me.

"Okay," Violet's eyes glimmer as she grabs a CD from the haphazard stack on the nearby bookshelf, holding it up for my perusal, I laugh a little, nodding my head. "So we can agree on Hole?"

"Oh, yeah," I tell her, watching her nibble her lip and wishing that it was my teeth pulling at the succulent flesh there. "We can agree on Hole." My jaded, sweet, little Courtney Love.

I hear him on the stairs even though Violet doesn't. I am more attuned to the house, but I've had more time. My girl will get there.

And then he's at the door, leaning in, invading our place, our sanctuary, our time together. "What are you doing in here?" And I hate Ben Harmon all the more; I picture bashing his skull in, causing the bones to shatter, to cave in on themselves, destroying his handsome cocky face for my own enjoyment.

"Just listening to music, Dad," Violet replies, her face betraying nothing but innocence, the teasing sarcasm of moments before melting away as she smiles patiently for her father.

"You need to leave, Tate. I'm sorry, you shouldn't be in here and I think you know that. Please." Son of a fucking bitch.

I stand, doing as he requests, but only for Violet's sake. She stares in confusion as I approach him, glancing back at her with wounded eyes, showing her that I'm the victim, I'm the one who needs saving, and seeing the wheels turn behind her eyes, as she casts disbelieving looks at Ben. It's there already, a hardening to him. Something that happened before me, coloring her view of him, and I see it for what it truly is, a chink in the armor.

Pushing my advantage I walk toward him, toward the door, and away from salvation. "What's that thing you think I'm afraid of? Fear of rejection?" I say with angry eyes, shoving past him, into the hall.

"Stay away from him."

"Dad," I hear her utter his name like a loathed curse as I run, torn and frantic, down the flights of stairs; both running away from and toward Violet, depending on how you see it.

Ben Harmon and his smug fucking face. It's pretty and really begs to be smashed to a fucking pulp. He thinks he's won. He told Violet to keep clear. Why don't parents ever seem to understand that the most powerful aphrodisiac for a teenage girl is to be told to stay away from a guy she likes? She'll be begging me to get her off, to slide right into her cunt, in less than four weeks. Looks like this year I'm going to have a Valentine.

The following morning I dress for school: cardigan, ripped jeans, chucks, and tuck Violet's panties in my front pocket. I have taken to carrying them like a talisman. It's fucking weird but I don't give a flying shit. I need new ones though, mine are running dry, they smell more like my cock than her sweet untouched pussy.

Standing in my usual spot, behind the bush, peeping like some voyeur, I wait for Violet to exit her house, to start on her path to school. Tucking a cigarette behind my ear I see her I step out into the light, striding confidently toward the sidewalk running along the front of our houses. "Hey!" I call, rushing to catch up with her.

Violet spins, her black hat nearly slipping from her head, until she reaches up and grabs it, holding on as her hair reflects the golden light of the sun. "Tate," she smiles. An already lit smoke dangles from between two fingers of her right hand. She's wearing a purple flannel shirt, another floral dress, this one shorter and a bit more fitted than the previous, and torn black tights with gray high-top converses. I sink my top teeth into my lower lip.

Shuffling my foot in the dirt, I gaze at her from under my lashes, "Can I walk you to school?"

For one moment she looks nervous, shy, my girl who isn't afraid of anything. "Okay," she nods, and I grin, slipping the burning cigarette from her loose grip, making her squawk. I pass it back as soon as my own stick is burning and take a deep inhale.

We talk about nothing and everything for a couple of blocks; bands we like, how much we fucking hate high school, and then I just ask her: "Are you a virgin?"

She nearly topples over her own feet, stumbling, until I catch her elbow. So, I think, the girl isn't unflappable, and smirk. Glancing over at her I take in her flushed face, wide eyes, and pursed pink lips. Afraid that I've asked too much, too soon, freaked her the fuck out, I attempt to back pedal. "Shit, I'm sorry, Violet, I don't know what…"

"Yes," she blurts, on a rushed exhalation of pent up breath. Then, "Are you?"

Violet isn't looking at me except out of the corner of her eye. The reddish tint to her skin has moved all the way from her cheeks into her hairline and it disappears somewhere in her cleavage, hidden by that dress, with her soft little tits.

Glancing sideways at her I grin, "Yeah." I've fucked around a little, sure, but never met a girl I wanted to work for until her. I wanted to fuck someone I loved. Needed to feel that connection. I needed her to love me before I could fuck her, change everything, just like that, though my dick vehemently protested, demanding to take her now, now, now. But I knew, just knew, it would be all the sweeter for the waiting. And Violet's answering smile was all the reminder I needed.

That afternoon, during lunch, my girl got in a three on one fight with Leah and her gang of slags. Hair pulling, cat scratches, bitch slapping, shoving, groping, it was almost too much for any guy to handle. I don't even know what the fuck she was doing in the cafeteria. I had fully intended to accidentally bump into her then, at the wall, share a cigarette, a coke, maybe try and steal a kiss, but she had no-showed. And I had missed all of the action.

I mean shit, she burned a chick with a still smoldering smoke. That is amazing.

Violet was a fucking firecracker. Set to make my dick explode. There was violence in her. It spoke to me in volumes.

When I see her after school on the walk home, her hat askew, her face scratched up and bruised, blood on her forehead, I can't stop myself. "What happened to your face?" I demand only seconds before grabbing her by the shoulders and crashing my lips against hers. Violet, never having time to reply, goes still, surprised, before melting into my embrace, her lips siding along my own, her mouth opening, her swift little pink tongue sweeping along my teeth, making me groan with need. "Fuck," I breathe, pushing her back, adjusting my destroyed jeans, as she grins, all wide eyes. "I heard Leah looks a lot worse than you do."

"Serves that bitch right," she huffs. "I'm not afraid of them."

"You're not afraid of anything," I say, taking her hand in mine.

"What scares you?" She asks me, eyes on the street ahead of us. I don't answer. Because it's way too fucking early to say something ridiculous like, losing you. So I squeeze her hand and offer a panty-wetting smile.

At Murder House I wonder, "Your dad home?"

"He's always fucking home."

I sigh. Fuck.

"But you know the way around my house, don't you?" My girl is figuring out my little secrets at a rapid, disturbing rate. I shrug, noncommittal, indifferent. Still, she knows I mean yes. "Okay, so meet me in my room in fifteen." And with that she lets go of my hand, jogs across the lawn, and into her house. I grin, bite my lip, and begin counting the seconds before sneaking around the side of the house to the constantly unlatched basement door.

Twenty minutes later I am lounging in the oversized leather arm chair in Violet's bedroom, mere feet from her bed, and she is blasting Nirvana, tugging at the sleeves of her flannel, and I know she is thinking about cutting, about the release. She is pacing the room, anger growing, building, blossoming inside of her, and I love it. It makes me so fucking hard. Her rage.

She rails against the world, "I hate her! I just want to kill her!"

"Then do it," I reply, excited, high on the energy in the room. "One less high school bitch making the lives of the less fortunate intolerable is, in my opinion, a public service." I am master of this moment. "Look, you want her to leave you alone? Stop making your life a living hell? Short of killing her, there is only one solution," I say with all the seriousness I can muster, trying to contain my manic glee. "Scare her," I begin. "Make her afraid of you. It's the only thing bullies react to."

Violet stops moving to fix me with a glare, her eyes steely. "How?" She purses her dusky rose lips.

"It's simple," I shrug, "She's a cokehead. Tell her you're a dealer with the best shit in town and get her here, to the house."

"But I don't have any coke," she tells me, mouth turned down, like that is the problem.

"You won't need any. It's just an excuse to get her here. After that, she'll leave empty handed and terrified." Violet starts up again, all frantic energy and moody teen angst.

Soon she stops, abruptly turning to me, hands on her slim hips, making me wet my lips and grip the chair arms a little harder. "How am I going to terrify her?"

"That's where I come in," I grin. Violet cocks a brow, tilts her head, and studies me. "Helter Skelter."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" She demands, standing directly in front of me.

I place my hands on her waist, above her own, and flex my fingertips, feeling the give of her flesh, watching her hazel eyes darken with something akin to need. "I never kid about Helter Skelter, Violet," I reply, before tugging, bringing her down into my lap, her knees spread, resting on other side of my thighs in the oversized chair, mouth pressed to my own.

Within minutes I have our positions reversed; I am between her thighs, pressing her back into the soft downy mattress beneath her. I run my fingertips along her now exposed forearms, skimming over the raised skin of her cuts, her scars, and feeling my hips inadvertently thrust into her center, the cradle of her thighs. She sighs, small mewls escaping from the back of her throat as my hands move to the soft curve of her inner thighs, running up and down over the barely concealed flesh. "Tate," she breaths, pleading, as I drag a knuckle along the seam, just there, right where she's hottest. Wettest. And fuck, is she both of those things. It's like liquid fire where I touch her. And I know I'm not going to fuck her, it's not part of the plan, not this part, not now. But god, I fucking want to.

My next session with Doctor Harmon begins strained and only degrades from there. Dipshit. Glaring at me like I deflowered his daughter. I was the one who fucking said no, who stilled her hot little hands from yanking my cock out of my jeans. Not that he even knows I was here. Self-absorbed fucking narcissist.

And he doesn't think that I could possibly deserve Violet or her love. All he sees in front him is some psychopath who dreams of blood and piss and shit and murder and fucking. And so maybe she is too good for me but that's for Violet to decide, not some cocky asshole psychiatrist, who doesn't really give a shit about his family. Hypocrite.

So I glare at him, watching him, listening to their phone ring again and again before abruptly going silent.

When sex comes up, because in a way I was the one who brought it up, bored and tired of these sessions already, and antsy to get up to Violet's room after we are through, Ben just can't help himself with the questions.

"Do you think about sex a lot?"

"I think about one girl in particular." I pause for effect, "You're daughter," then smile. "I jerk off thinking about her. A lot." I don't mention the part about the stolen underwear but I think about the two freshly worn pairs I have in my possession, one in my cardigan pocket as I sit there in that office. The other in my backpack. But big fucking Ben isn't comfortable. I think about strangling him, watching the life choke out of his body, lips turning blue, eyes bulging from their sockets. I lean in, enjoying myself immensely, "Don't you want to know what I do to her? How I lay her down on the bed…" and then I'm picturing it, Violet spread out before me as she was the other night, willing, offering, pliant under my touch. And fuck, I need it again.

"Do you turn to these thoughts to comfort yourself? In times of stress?"

And that kind of catches me off guard, makes me think. Ben has a point. "Actually, yes. I jerk off a lot to make the visions go away." I don't mention that my newest remedy is having my hands, my greedy lips, all over his baby girl. That she is the thing I lose myself in. I like watching the doctor squirm but I don't actually want him analyzing what I have with Violet. It's none of his goddamned business. I continue, "The blood and the carnage," I swallow, serious, "I want the thoughts to go away and you're not helping me". For all that your daughter is. But being there, with him, it makes me angry, hateful, and I want out. If he finishes with me, maybe Constance will just forget it, drop the whole fucking thing, and let our lives get back to normal. Whatever that is.

Ben argues that we've only had a few sessions and all I want is for him to shut the fuck up. So I drop a bomb, "Violet told me about the affair with the girl in Boston." She had been so fucking disgusted, spitting vitriol and making me hard with her barely contained fury. She had even smashed a picture of the family, glass shards flying, before sweeping her palms along the glass, leaving blood in her wake, tears on her cheeks.

Ben didn't love, couldn't love. He didn't know how. He was weak.

"Not much older than her, she said."

"Our time is up," he tells me, tone flat, the hardness in his eyes belying the calm exterior and relaxed posture.

"Bullshit. I don't accept that."

"Our time is up for today, Tate."

I lean back, a smirk threatening to break through, as I gaze dispassionately back at my doctor, before I grab my satchel and leave the room without another word, slamming the door behind me as the phone rings for the fifth time that hour.

Glancing over my shoulder I see that the good doctor has stayed right where he was and I give up pretenses, walking directly to the old solid staircase. She is listening to The Cure. Robert Smith's melodic, sorrowful voice filters down to my ears and I grin, already anticipating my lovely little girl, in one of her floral dresses sprawled out across her bed, purring like a little kitten under my hands.