A/N: It's been a long while, guys. But I just have had some of these lines rattling around in my brain and they won't go away. I have fallen in love with Tate and Violet from American Horror Story because they are just so tragically beautiful. I hope my writing does them justice.

I must shout out to the many wonderful authors in this fandom – your work has inspired me to try my hand at such a wonderful pair. This is a stream-of-consciousness story made up of somewhat disjointed snapshots of Tate and Violet's encounters, hopefully coalescing into them falling back into each other's arms again.

Oh, How It Burns

Violate.

What three beautifully haunting syllables.

When she says it, it burns like whiskey and smoke down her throat. Violate. What a painful word.

That's what he did to her mom. And to her. While he violated her mother physically, he violated her a lot worse. He violated her heart. Her feelings. He cut her to the core. Just thinking about it makes her twist and writhe. She claws at her skin as if she could dig her warped love for him out of her.

Oh, how it burns. Oh, how he burns her.

"You must have sucked at hide-and-seek as a kid."

"You're right."

"Stop spying on me."

"Sorry."

"You're not. Stop apologizing for things you're not sorry for. No one likes a liar."

"I suppose not."

"I don't like them. Liars are the worst sort of people."

"You're right."

Silence.

"Go away."

He must want to get caught by her because there is no other way she can explain why he is so shitty at keeping himself hidden from her. Too bad she wants him to keep letting her see glimpses of him so her pain and anger flare white-hot like her cigarettes. And she wants nothing more than to stab them into his dimples and char the smile that mocks her dreams.

Seeing him keeps the pain fresh. She needs to remember its cutting freshness to remind herself why she should not love him. It makes it easier to fuel the fire.

Unfortunately, the sadness comes crashing down later and she cries on the bathroom floor, fully aware that he is there watching her. She destroys the mirror, slashes the air with the jagged pieces, hoping to cut the invisible him. She hopes he suffocates on those shards, hopes they shed his insides so he can feel an ounce, an iota, of the anguish she feels every day.

She hopes he chokes on their failed relationship. She hopes he knows it is his fault he lost her. Now it is just up to her to remain lost to him.

He is standing in the door frame of what used to be her room. It used to be his, too. She shudders at how many memories this room holds for the both of them.

She pushes past him and flops down on the bed. He doesn't move.

They must have been quiet for ten minutes, but it felt like an eternity. But then she laughs softly at her concept of time.

"What's so funny?"

She answers, but it is not what he is expecting.

"Birds are quite funny. They can fly, but why would their wings have evolved to be so delicate? I could just snap them in half and they would be crippled, helplessly hobbling on the ground before falling prey to some cat. Sounds like a big fuck you from nature."

"Maybe it was so they would intensely cherish such a freedom."

She rises up from the bed to find him staring intently at her. It was the kind of look he gave her before they had sex, that one time so long ago. She remembers it vividly.

"Why are you staring at me like that?"

He snaps out of it, his eyes losing the ferocious intensity that had so engulfed them a moment before.

"I'm sorry."

"That doesn't answer my question."

He looks down, nervously scuffing the floorboards with his shoes.

"I don't know."

"Cut the shit, Tate." Then she realizes that was the first time she said his name in years. She winces at how good the flick of her tongue felt in her mouth, like it was sighing in relief of finally, finally, making that beloved movement again.

"I really don't. I guess I was just noticing how beautiful you are."

Her heart cracks ever so slightly. She manages to send him away before she breaks down.

"I don't want to see you."

"I know."

"You're still spying on me."

"I'm sorry. I can't help myself."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both."

The silence threatens to crush her.

"Go away."

He doesn't disappear. She sees that devilish smirk of his when he realizes what this must mean.

"It only works if you mean it."

She steals herself for what she knows must be coming next.

"So I guess this means you don't really want me to go."

She returns this comment with a smile of her own. Only hers doesn't reach her eyes.

"How do you know staying with me won't be worse than being sent away?"

She laughs at the shock registering on his face. She can be cruel, especially when it comes to him.

"You're a monster."

"I guess I am."

"You are, because you do without thinking about the consequences. Like an animal."

Silence.

"Or you just don't care about the consequences."

"I never thought like that. I just took what I wanted. I didn't feel like I owed the world anything, so I did as I pleased."

"Do you want me?"

"So much."

She looks at him. He looks at her with a combination of lust and longing so strong she feels like she is staring into the sun, slowly going blind but being unable – and worse, unwilling – to stop it.

"Too bad."

She is lying on the bed naked because it is just too damn hot to have clothes on. She opened the window but there has not been a breeze all day. The air is heavy and sticky. She flings her arm over her face and wishes fervently that she had a fan. She knows a shower would cool her down, but she usually would rather avoid her death place and the memory of him tenderly kissing her wet hair and face as she died.

"Jesus, why is it so fucking hot?"

Swinging her legs out from under her, she gets off the bed to turn on her iPod to listen to some Cobain.

"Stop checking out my ass."

"Sorry."

She hates that word. She goes to pull a loose sundress over her body because she wants to wipe the newly born shit-eating grin off his face. He doesn't even have the decency to look sheepish. It makes her want to bash his skull in.

"Have fun jerking off to that image later."

Now he looks sheepish. Serves him right.

"Don't pretend you don't think about me."

"So I won't."

"Good."

Violate.

It still burns her. He still burns her. Like fire in her veins, searing down her arms until her scars are red-hot with it, licking, biting, stinging. But she wonders if she still hates the burn more than she relishes it, revels in its harsh, feral rawness.

There's a fine line between pain and pleasure. She didn't need anyone to tell her that. She was never anyone who liked rainbows and butterflies. She had no delusions about love's destructive capabilities. She knew love was a close cousin to pain.

"Can I kiss you?"

"No."

More oppressive silence. She feels like she is drowning in it.

"You burn like fire, Tate. You'll burn me up."

"You would burn me just as much."

"I doubt that."

"We can burn each other. I wouldn't mind."

And she is afraid to admit that she wouldn't mind, either.

A/N: What do you think? Reviews would be much appreciated. I think I will continue this and see where my mind takes me.