A/N: Hey everybody! First things first, can I just get a fandom-wide hug? I mean, holy crap I love you all. Secondly, it's 1:30AM and i'm tired so if I've missed typos and this is a little disjointed, I apologize and I'll fix it in the morning. This is a companion piece to The Devil's Double, The Devil's Advocate, and The Devil's Due, the last two belonging to the super wonderful Gray Glube. So if you haven't read those, this will probably make very little sense.

Warning: Faux Incest

Enjoy!

"What do you want, Tate?" Violet sighs from where she sits cross-legged in the driveway, picking at the moss that has sprouted up between concrete slabs, flinging little clumps of green out through the main gate. She doesn't bother looking back to confirm it's her blond boy lurking in the shade and not Travis or her mom or one of the gays.

He doesn't say anything, just pulls the front door closed behind him and jumps down off the porch, making his way over to where she's out lazing in the sun. It's Spring Break for anyone that isn't tethered to the house and Violet's probably wondering whether she would have spent it in Cancun or Jamaica, if she would have picked out a one-piece or something more revealing, what SPF she would have needed out on all that white sand.

Approaching her slowly, like she might turn on him in a whirl of ash brown and demand that he go, he pushes the sleeves of his sweater up past his elbows and stops when he feels the toes of his sneakers hit the base of her spine.

"What are you doing?" His voice is quiet and careful, curious, and he reaches out for her wind-churned hair, running his pinched thumb and forefinger down a thin lock, noting the way the sun tints it an almost auburn-gold.

"River dancing," Violet deadpans, reaching back and seizing his wrist, head rolling back against the top of her spine to squint up at him. "What does it look like I'm – oh, it's you."

Somewhere nearby a dog barks and a car sputters to life and a manic smile splits Langdon's fragile expression wide open.

"How'd you know?" he beams, impressed, dropping down next to her on the warm pavement. "Was it my face? I was going for 'help, somebody's kicked my puppy.' Not spineless enough?"

Violet huffs a breath like a laugh out through her nose and shrugs, pulling her knees up to her chest to rest her cheek against them, closing her eyes when Langdon moves to secure a veil of hair behind her ear; the backs of his fingers skim past her cheek but she can't even muster up the strength to hiss.

They sit in silence for a little while, watching cars roll through the street and birds swoop past the house while the breeze pushes weakly at their hair, until Langdon folds and heaves out a dramatic sigh.

"So… where's your little dust bunny? I haven't seen her traipsing around the basement lately."He tries for affection, but whinges and cups his side at the mention of Dusty, tacking on an absent, "I want my rib back," and pressing into the hollow where it should be. She's taken it again. It's become a ritual. She lets him fuck her on all fours and after he pumps her full of liquid lust, he slumps over long enough for her to retch him open with a stake and pry out her reward.

Again, Violet just shrugs and blows a piece of hair out of her eyes, hugging her shins, watching Langdon fidget with the frayed hem of his jeans, tugging uselessly at a pulled string, folding over and tearing it with his teeth when it doesn't give.

"Well aren't you just a fuckin' ray of sunshine toda—"

Violet's proposition tramples carelessly over his quip.

"Hey Langdon…" She pulls her head up from her knees and turns to more wholly face him, reaching out and walking her fingers down the knot of his Adam's apple, lethargy turned bold. "Wanna fuck?"

Langdon tenses and barks out a laugh, because it's funny and because he was expecting it, because what he wasn't expecting is how the thought of indulging her is making feel, guilty. Somewhere deep down he's remembering that Violet isn't his.

But while he's busy contemplating whether or not he's gone soft for the boy whose face he stole, Violet's shifting into his lap and slinging both arms over his shoulders, dressing her face up in seduction, mouth pursing into a full pout, eyebrows pointedly arched.

"C'mon," she coos, staring down at his mouth like kissing him would be the key to her salvation, enraptured. His grin softens at the edges and his eyelids droop. She's wriggling in his lap in just a t-shirt and panties and it's murder on his sudden sense of loyalty.

"You must get tired of that crazy bitch. I've got tits and a tongue." Her mouth is at his ear, rimming the cartilage in demonstration, and when she pulls back to gauge his expression the black of Langdon's irises has spilled out and swallowed the whites.

He pulls in a slow breath and groans. It's the kind of noise someone makes after a decadent taste, after the first bite of filet mignon or spoonful of crème brulee.

"You really hate him, don't you?" he drawls, cuffing her bare waist under the loose tee, working her hips in a slow circle against his groin. "I can fucking taste it. Bitter and sharp, like dark chocolate or something…" His broad palms splay up her sides, thumbs teasing along the underside of Violet's breasts, the pads of his fingers brushing over the curved bones of her ribcage. "No wonder he lets you tote his balls around in your pockets."

She smiles up at Langdon from under her lashes and cups his cheek with one hand. "He's a fucking asshole," she says dismissively, grinning, and then she kisses him.

It's deceptively soft, like they're lovers almost, and Langdon has a sneaking suspicion that, behind closed lids, Violet's playing pretend. She's make-believing that he's Tate and that she's Violet, the old Violet, back before she took all those pills that made her dead and back before she knew her boyfriend fucked her mom And he doesn't mind it, being used like this, a replacement, Tate and Violet's substitute for each other.

Oh, right.

Tate.

Tate finds Langdon reclined in Violet's old room a while later, puffing away at a stolen cigarette and flipping through an old copy of Rolling Stone.

"What's a Justin Bieber and how can I kill it?" He groans, eyes flicking up to Tate looming in the doorway, still bled black from his little rendezvous with Violet. The whole thing had left him feeling drowsy and sluggish, like how you'd feel after finishing off a seven-course meal by yourself.

Tate steps into the room and eases the door shut behind him, quietly buzzing, the muscles in his back strung tight, a ticking fucking time-bomb.

"Ew, dude. What's wrong with your face?" His brother frowns, beckoning him closer, eyeing him up and down. "You look like shit." He does. His face is blotchy and red and his mouth looks heavy where it's set into his face.

"Yeah, well I feel like shit."

"Why?" Langdon sets the magazine aside and sucks in another lungful of smoke, speaking after the inhale. "Didya try to nail that filthy tongueless she-devil downstairs? What'd she do to you? Did she cut off your dick? No? Did she bite it off? Did you see my rib? Was she picking her teeth with it again? It's just insulting. I only ever—"

Tate cuts him off then and there with a tight hand around his throat, snatching the cigarette and pulling in a shaky drag before stubbing it out in his twin's appled cheek.

Langdon's face scrunches in pain, but smoothes out just as fast, his hand raising up to cover his brother's, his fingers pushing their way into the grooves between Tate's, curling, helping.

"If you wanted to play rough, you only had to ask." His voice is more of a croak than anything else, but his mouth is pulled wide into that same taunting smile.

Tate forces out a snagged breath and climbs up onto the mattress, straddling his twin, his hand clutched around his throat and cinching tighter all the while.

Langdon waggles his eyebrows.

"You fucked her." It's an accusation, Tate's tone barely held even, the sob sifting into his words.

"Mmm, who are we talking about?"

"Why?"

"Because she asked so nicely."

Tate's second hand joins his first and he squeezes, wringing the words from his twin's throat, pressing until there are prints burned into his skin, pressing until Langdon's grown bored, until he's grinning and peeling Tate's fingers back, one by one.

When he can breathe again, when Tate's hands are balled into fists on his thighs and his eyes are filling with hot angry tears, Langdon props himself up onto his elbows and bubbles into hysterics.

He laughs until he can't breathe all over again, his stomach sore under Tate's weight, until his cheeks hurt and his eyes are watering. And then, after a cough and a wheeze, he laughs some more.

"What's so goddamn funny?"

Tate's lips are curled back in revulsion while Langdon shakes his face back and forth, trying to catch his breath, missing it every time.

Another fifteen seconds and Tate's face is wet with vicious tears.

Five more and Langdon can speak. Or he would be able to if his brother hadn't slugged him square in the mouth, a futile attempt at wiping that shit-eating grin from his face no doubt. Needless to say, he doesn't. It's back, just as bright as before. 100 watts of 'fuck you' comes in red too.

Langdon leans sideways and spits a cheekful of blood over the edge of the mattress, his gaze crawling over to Tate's face even before he turns back.

"What's the matter, brother? Am I too cheerful for you? All smiles and sass? Not enough doom and gloom?" The point of his tongue darts out to wet his top lip and he swallows, the lustrous blacks of his eyes disappearing behind his eyelids for a beat.

Outside, one of the real twins, Bryan or Troy, drag an aluminum baseball bat across the front yard fence.

"Pray tell, what would you prefer?" When Langdon's eyes slit open, they're still an all over black but there's a dead calm in them that wasn't there before, a dead calm that then disappears, replaced in an instant by the storm that always comes after.

With Violet's angst in his veins, he's strong enough to buck Tate up and off him, sending his better half hurtling towards the floor, Langdon's hands clawed into the front of his shirt.

They land on the hardwood with a thud, Tate's skull cracking back against the floorboards hard enough to send his vision fuzzy and his ears ringing. He tries to lift up, woozy, but then Langdon's fist descends, an unwarranted rebuttal that disrupts the perfect line of Tate's nose with a hollow crunch.

"This better?" he huffs out in between punches, swatting off his brother's flailing, drooling a long string of blood that dangles and drops onto Tate's cheek.

"You ever wonder why your cock gives Violet the heebie-jeebies now, why she might want me to ease the ache between her thighs instead of you, why she can't even look at you when you do manage to weasel your way inside her? And no, it's not because I'm such a fucking delight."

Tate's breathing is a wet gurgle, his nose and cheekbones broken in several places now and a few of his teeth missing, but it doesn't stop him from tilting his chin into his chest and spitting, misting his twin's face a soft crimson that Langdon proceeds to leisurely swab at with the side of his tongue.

Then he stops with the punches because Tate's right on the edge of consciousness and because he needs to hear this.

"No guesses...? It's because you're a pussy, Tate. Why bother fucking you, what with the constant waterworks and all, when she can just fuck herself, or Dusty? She treats you like shit because you let her." Pausing to nurse a stream of blood still flowing from between his front teeth, Langdon wipes his torn bloodied knuckles on the shoulder of Tate's sweater and sighs.

"This whole 'woe is me' attitude is a major turn off, man. You need to grow a pair and, like I said months ago, take her. It's what she wants, not your timid fucking 'Violet's and 'I love you's. You still think she's the same living girl you gave that painted flower to, but she's not. All that light in her that drew you in, it's gone, okay? You need to realize that."

Langdon's brilliant insight startles even himself and, smiling again, satisfied with his pep-talk, he stumbles to his feet. He steps carefully over Tate, spread out, listlessly squirming on the floor and reaches out for a mug from Violet's old desk that's been stuffed full of pens and pencils. And a letter opener. He plucks the makeshift blade from the bouquet of writing utensils and backpedals to his brother.

"Cheer up, buddy," Langdon grins, squatting down over Tate's sternum again, watching him glare upwards from under a blindfold of blood.

When he's done admiring his handiwork thus far, Langdon heaves a dramatic inhale-exhale and cuts Tate's throat open into a wide red smile. He sputters and jerks against the floor, his sweater soaking scarlet, and then he lies still.

Langdon watches the last flicker of light fade from his eyes and then he stands, grabbing hold of his hopeless brother's ankles and dragging him from the room.

"You poor sap," He frowns, pulling Tate through the hallway and down the stairs, chucking him into the basement when he gets the door open. Maybe Dusty would like a new plaything; he's already had his daily dose of monster girl.

When Tate wakes up, his hand drawn immediately to his throat, smooth and seamless again, there's a Violet watching him.

"What the-" he rasps, mouth dry, and pulls himself up into a sitting position against the wall, taking stock of his surroundings while a pair of large brown eyes peer over at him from across the small room. They're in the crawlspace, where he'd dumped Violet's body when she died, only her sweater and bones are gone. In their place are small mounds of dead animals in varying stages of decomposition and a nest of scavenged fur that looks something like a pillow.

"Dusty?"

She nods, clearly delighted that he's awake, and scurries over to where he's propped upright.

Tate's got revenge on his mind, anxious to pay his double another visit, but is quickly distracted by Dusty settling into his lap, her fingers, caked with dirt and blood, tracing out designs on his cheek. It's as close to a 'hello' as he's ever going to get from her.

"Hello."

"Dusty?" It's Violet. She's somewhere in the basement looking for her tangle-haired twin.

Langdon's parting words come to mind at the sound of her voice, soft and fond - just how she used to sound calling his name - and suddenly Tate is spite incarnate. He presses a finger to Dusty's lips and shushes her, turning his head to better gauge exactly where Violet is searching. She calls for her twin again, closer now, and Tate closes his eyes, assaulted by the insidious curiosity of in what position(s) she and Langdon had fucked.

Dusty must sense his quiet despair, because she nibbles at the end of his finger and leans forward to nuzzle at his face, her hands winding excitedly around his neck when he brushes a conciliatory kiss over her cheek. She makes a high-pitched sort of whirring noise, something between a whoop and a purr, and lifts up her skirt.

From what Tate remembers, that's an open invitation, and if Violet thinks he's a fucking waste of time, why not?

He shifts Dusty in his lap, pushing her knees apart, and seeks out the ever-wet space between her hips.

"Ugh, not you too."

His head snaps up to the ledge of the crawlspace's catwalk and he sneers, probing Dusty with two fingers out of sheer want and defiance, making sure they squelch audibly for Violet's benefit.

From where she stands above them, Tate can hardly make out her face in the dust and dark, but he doesn't have to look to know that it flickers sad for a second or two.

"Oh, is this not okay?" he huffs, sardonic, catching Dusty's waist in his hand when she curls into him, cheek against his shoulder, and begins riding his fingers.

Violet takes a breath like she's about to say something but doesn't, sits down instead, lets her legs dangle over the edge of the catwalk down into the space where her twin and Tate are writhing.

"Yeah, I didn't think so either, until I saw you out front with Langdon this morning. You're a class act, Vi, a real fucking keeper." He's rutting idly against Dusty and struggling to keep the wetness in his eyes from spilling over. The girl in his lap feels just like Violet and nothing like her at the same time.

"You have a terrible memory, Tate." She swallows and pulls out a smoke, flipping open her Zippo and lighting up, taking a few puffs before elucidating.

"Remember when you fucked that girl in the pretty sundress upstairs in my old room, the girl with painted nails and sweet-smelling skin?"

Tate opens his mouth to argue but Violet thrusts her hand at him and snarls. "Yeah, I know. It was me., but you didn't fucking know that. You thought I was sitting over in the chair and that Dusty was the one with her lips wrapped around your dick, so I don't wanna hear your bullshit whining. All's fair..."

"You're a bitch."

"You're pathetic."

"Fuck off."

"Come here."

Tate stares, incredulous, at the sudden derailement and even Dusty turns her head to where Violet's snuffing out her cigarette. Then, with a fond coo, the tongueless twin pops up from his lap and toddles over to her sister, flopping over onto her belly and crawling up out of the sunken room.

"Not you," VIolet groans, shooing Dusty when she climbs onto the ledge, brushing down the hem of her skirt before she runs off after a faint scurrying noise around the corner.

"Tate, come up here."

"No." He's half-hard and she's the cunt who's been ruining his life for the last forever and he knows already that if he gets up from where he's slumped against the asbestos, he's going to hurt her.

Alll he can think about is what kind of expletives he made her moan and if she came harder around Langdon's cock than his. And whether or not there's still an axe in the downstairs broom closet.

"Don't be childish. Get up out of my unmarked grave, or whatever, and come here."

"Violet-"

"Tate."

"Fine." The smell of rotting critters is getting to be too much anyway. Willing down his erection, Tate gets to his feet and staggers over to Violet, stumbling over a heap of raccoon skulls and a clump of matted fur. She tries for politeness and offers him a hand, but he ignores it, hopping up onto the platform and leading her out of the crawlspace, patting the dust and soot out of his sweater and jeans.

He's still fuming, jealous and irate, when they turn into the main spread of the basement, but Travis is there playing hopscotch with Lorraine's girls and they don't need to witness this shit Violet's been pulling with him come to a head. They chirp him 'hello' and he raises one hand like a wave and continues on up the stairs into the house.

Just inside, Moira is scrubbing down the hallway with vinegar and the bitter stink burns right through him. He kicks over her mop and bucket and stomps out into the backyard, the corner of his lips quirking up in a smirk when the old bat nags after him about what a vile, loathsome little brat he is.

It's dusk now, the sky stretched pretty pinks and oranges at one end and soft lavender at the other and it might be nice, soothing even, if there wasn't a too-familiar shadow silhouetted against the gazebo.

"Hello, brother!" Langdon waves cheerily and pushes off from the beam he'd been leaning against to bound over to Tate, and subsequently Violet, who appears a few beats later and quietly closes the door behind her.

Tate scowls at his twin's unbearable optimism and turns to fit Violet with the same contemptuous look, but she pushes by him and meets Langdon halfway in the grass, tucking herself under his arm when he raises it.

"He thinks we fucked," she giggles, curling her arm around his waist and anchoring her thumb in a belt loop. They look cute together, like a photograph Violet used to keep framed on her desk of Tate and her from their first Christmas, back when she was alive and they were happy; it makes him want to cry and break things, people too.

"You know, I've been getting that vibe too..." Langdon's tone is thoughtful and his libido hums to life from the sheer amount of tension in the yard. "But that's just silly. Surely he knows we would never get busy without the appropriate supervision."

"I know, I know, that's what you said earlier. 'Not worth it if Tater Tot can't watch.' And you were right."

They're talking like he's not even there but there are two pairs of eyes on him and his stomach does a clumsy somersault, half in overwhelming relief and half in anticipatory dread of what comes next.

"Fuck you both," Tate spits, wetting his mouth with his tongue and clenching his jaw, pressing his teeth together until his temples throb.

They both grin, bright and cruel at their most favorite thing and then they fold into one another, Violet hopping up and slotting their smiles together, parting her lips for Langdon when he catches her in the air and growls deep in his chest, the whites of his eyes swept black behind closed lids.

He walks them both back to the gazebo and props Violet on the banister, tipping her back and feeling out her molars with his tongue. She grips a vertical beam for balance and his hand dips between her thighs, tearing through the sole barrier of her cotton panties with a quick snap of his wrist. Pastel stripes and flowers flutter to the ground and it's momentous like gunfire at the races.

Tate is spurred into action, or reaction rather. He crosses the distance between them in a few long strides and pulls Langdon back with a fist in his hair. His fingers curl, pulling at his scalp, and Langdon drags himself away from Violet's eager mouth, which hungrily descends down the line of his throat.

"That's the idea!" Langdon beams, proud, bursting with it when Tate pops him in the eye, sharp knuckles splitting his eyebrow. "You've gotta start taking!"

"Fucking finally," Violet says, heaving out a sigh and releasing the support beam in favor of crooking her arm around Tate's neck, legs still coiled around his brother's waist.

Langdon's cut is bleeding into his eye and down the sharp edge of his cheek and he prizes Tate a congratulatory pat on the back, pinching his cheek for effect. "You've grown a backbone, buddy. Bravo. I'm glad you really took our little chat to heart."

Violet nods in solidarity and twirls one of Tate's blond curls around her finger, blushing petal-pink and pulling him close for a kiss. He resists for a moment, half-hard and wholly confused, but softens when she breathes out a hushed 'I've missed you' and closes her eyes. Her lips are velvet and pliable under his own and he can't help the little whine that inches past his bravado. She tastes like white wine and she smells like cucumber and he loses himself in the simple act.

"There's just one thing..." Langdon pushes the heel of his hand into his socket to stop the flow of blood in his brow and feels out Tate's navel through his sweater, his tone fond, apologetic.

"Oh yeah," Violet murmurs, tracing the perfect bow of Tate's lips with the tip of her tongue. When she speaks her mouth is a fingerbreadth away from his and her voice is soft and coaxing. "Tate... I still want Langdon to fuck me, and I really want you to watch."

Drunk on the way her mouth fit against his and the way she said his name, like she used to, back when they didn't need to fight to fuck, he nods, even though it feels like a step backwards and even though the truth behind his answer makes him feel hopeless all over again. She might hate him and she might hurt him, but he loves her and after tasting her affection again, he can't deny her. He won't.

She gifts him an unbridled grin and reels him in for another kiss, hissing out a gentle moan into his lips and scratching under his collar at the curve of his collarbone. Then there's another pair of lips on his cheek and a voice rough in his ear.

"You're too good to us," Langdon breathes, his voice ragged with want but still edged in a smile, and he guides Tate's hand to where Violet is pink and swollen and wet inside.

Tate groans and she shudders and his fingers sink inside with little reluctance, reaching and curling until she's clenching around him and whining against the underside of his jaw.

By the time Tate pulls them free, Langdon's got his pants unfastened and his cock in his hand and he's craning his neck to take Tate's fingers into his mouth, licking them clean and making a silent promise that when this is all over his brother can count on a pair of lips stretched around his dick if nothing else.

Then Violet pulls back to keen, and through half-lidded eyes they're both watching Tate as Langdon sinks into her, burying his hips into the backs of her thighs, surging forward to catch his twin's lips in a languid kiss when Violet's head falls back between her shoulders.

He tastes like she does and the knowledge makes Tate woozy, the fingers of one hand busy circling Violet's clit and the other curled into the front of Langdon's shirt.

Soon, even in her pleasure haze, Violet works her way into Tate's jeans and push-pulls at him, her toes curled behind Langdon's back and her mouth slack with silent euphoria.

He lets this go on for a while, because she likes it and so does he, but when her eyebrows frown and her face tightens into something almost-ugly but not even close, Tate can't take it any longer. He cups Langdon's face with both hands and nudges at his nose, breaking the kiss with a mewl and pressing their foreheads together. And then with a slow inhale and a little focus, he snaps his neck.

Langdon crumples and Tate takes his place and before long both he and Violet are coming undone, the gazebo swaying dangerously with the force of their frantic back and forth.

She puddles in his arms and his face falls into the bend of her neck and they stay there for a long while, until it's dark outside, until Langdon's twitching awake on the grass.

"Tate," Violet purrs, sleepy, pressing kisses to his shoulder, both arms slung limp around his neck. He breathes in sweat and sex on her skin and exhales, content.

"Yeah?"

"Touch Dusty again and I'll cut your dick off."

Tate laughs and so does she, but she's serious and he knows, so when she hops down from the banister to go inside for a drink, he catches her arm and tells her he's sorry. She nods that it's okay and then he watches her disappear through the dark.

"Adorable," Langdon hums, reclined on one arm in the grass, alive again and grinning up at his brother.

Tate nudges his side with his toe and drops down onto the grass, sitting cross-legged and plucking up a dandelion.

"What she said."

"Huh?"

"You touch Violet again and I'll cut your dick off."

Langdon laughs and throws a clump of dirt at his twin. "Whatever. We're closer in age, maybe you should just leave the humping to us, y'old geezer. Thirty-four and seventeen? Gross."

"Shut up, Langdon," Tate sighs, laying back to look up into the cosmos, the breeze heaven against his sex-flushed face and rubber limbs.

Inside there's the sound of someone in the kitchen and the frogs in the pond next door start their nightly crooning and his brother hums up the tune to some sappy love song by The Cure.

And because it's nice outside and he can't fathom moving just yet, Tate stretches out on the lawn and blows the hair out of his eyes and tries to spell out her name in the stars.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I'm going to try to put up some recommendations tomorrow when I get up, but for now just go forth and read! And if anybody wants to chat about Violate or AHS or WHATEVER, feel free to PM me. Like I said before, I love you all.

Next up I'll start something for a trade with ScarlettWoman710, finish up a collab with whodreamiedit, and start work on the final installment of our 'Devil's' fics with Gray Glube.

Until next time!

xx