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mushroom-words · 5 months ago

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Heaven's Just a Sin Away || Michael Langdon

Fandom: American Horror Story Pairing: Michael Langdon x Fem!Reader Words: 2277 Notes: This has been rewritten and reposted from a previous blog. This was actually the first thing I ever wrote for Michael, and I'm still proud of it to this day. Warnings: Virgin!Reader. Corruption kink, if you squint. Fingering. Dirty talk. Michael is a manipulative asshole, but that's why we love him, right? Summary: Michael calls you in for your interview and takes your virginity into his own hands.

“MY NAME IS Langdon, and I represent the Cooperative. Humanity is on the brink of failure. My arrival here was crucial to the survival of civilized life on Earth. I have been sent to determine if any of you are worthy and fit to join us.”

You had yet to make eye contact with Michael Langdon since he spoke to the group. There was an air about his presence which demanded the submission and obedience expected from a Grey. He was intimidating—and he had yet to say more than two words to you.

The silence was suffocating. You couldn’t tell if it had been one minute to have passed or ten since you were escorted into the office for your interview. It felt like an eternity. He hadn’t spoke since dismissing Ms. Venable and instructing you to take a seat in front of the desk. Langdon leaned back in his chair casually, fingers steepled as he studied you with an unreadable expression.

Ms. Venable had drilled it into your head that you were to respect Mr. Langdon. Her authority over Outpost 3 depended on it. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze until he broke the pregnant silence.

“I’ll tell you how this process works, Miss (Y/L/N). This interview determines where you go from here. You will tell me the truth,” he said. “Not the truth you think I want to hear. Not the truth you may have deceived yourself into believing. But the complete honesty we both know you’re capable of telling.”

Langdon stood and glided around the desk with the grace of a predator. Your eyes tracked his every movement.

“I will not tell you what criteria I am grading you on—things you may feel will be helpful might be harmful, and things you may feel will compel rejection may be your saving grace,” he continued. “If you omit any detail, no matter how small, I will know. If you lie, I will know. If you try to deceive me, I will know. Then this interview will be over, and you will die here. Painfully.”

You had no choice but to believe him. He was the first person outside of your fellow survivors at the outpost that you had seen since the bombs dropped. Ms. Venable and Ms. Mead often spoke of the Cooperative. Now their representative stood in front of you, looking as though the end of the world had little to no impact on his life. His red jacket and ascot was immaculate, his hair long and golden, and his eyes swirling stormily as they scrutinized your lesser appearance.

You felt vulnerable beneath his gaze. You knew then that you wouldn’t be able to lie to him even if you wanted to.

“I will do my best to decide whether you will leave this outpost alive or be eaten by the scavengers. Just answer my questions to the best of your ability.” His voice softened a touch, as though trying to reassure you, then hardened again like stone. “If you leave this room thinking you’ve got me right where you want me, you will be punished. Do you understand, Miss (Y/L/N)?”

You swallowed thickly, bowed your head, and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Sweat slicked your palms and cotton seemed to fill your mouth. Your anxiety had spiked while just waiting for your turn, but now, as you sat in front of him, you felt especially vulnerable. Your life rested in this man’s hands. You knitted your hands on your lap.

“Do I make you nervous?” Honey dripped from his tone, but even with your head bowed, you could sense the smirk. He leaned against the front of the desk with a single hand supporting his weight. The fire behind you reflected off his rings. Langdon knew you were nervous, and you knew it would do no good to lie about it.

You confirmed, squeezing your hands together. You jerked when cold fingers tapped before grasping your chin firmly and tipping your head up to look at him. The gasp that pushed past your lips seemed to amuse him. His eyes danced in the golden flame of the candles. You couldn’t look away.

Langdon leaned forward until his face was inches from yours. You sucked in a sharp breath as his breath fanned over your face, ruffling a few strands of hair that frame your face. “Tell me, (Y/N),” he said, your name rolling from his tongue like silver. “Are you a good girl?”

While the question threw you off guard, he’d left no room to question what he meant. He asked so quietly, so intimately, and so knowingly. You remembered your grandmother would use the same words to describe unmarried women who hadn’t yet indulged in pleasures of the flesh.

You let loose a trembling breath. “Yes, sir.”

Langdon, seemingly pleased with your answer, hummed and dropped his hand. He backed up a couple of steps, straightening back up as he looked down at you. Your heart thudded in your chest, blood rushing in your ears. You wanted to run away, wanted to flee from the room and from his intense stare, but you couldn’t move. Your bottom felt rooted to your chair as his eyes locked with yours.

Slowly, he began to circle you. “But you don’t want to be,” he said. Steady footfalls led him around your chair until he stationed himself directly behind you. You jumped when his hands fell to your shoulders.

The heat of his body close to yours seemed to surround you. Your breaths quickened. His cologne intoxicated your senses, clouding your thoughts and leaving you dazed as he leaned forward.

His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, words flowing like silk as he continued, “You think about it at night, don’t you? Finger your virgin cunt at night when you think no one is awake to hear you. Fantasize about it might feel to be filled by a man.”

Heat boiled in your stomach. You swallowed hard. Your hands clenched the fabric of your grey dress tightly, like if you held it firmly enough, it would stop the ache throbbing between your thighs. You licked your dry lips and captured the bottom one between your teeth.

Langdon nuzzled your burning cheek with the tip of his nose, murmuring, “You want to be fucked, Miss (Y/L/N). Don’t you?”

You were left too flustered to speak. Your silence prompted him to pull back. He circled back around to the front of you. You lowered your eyes to avoid looking at him, half-hoping the next words out of his mouth would be a dismissal and half-hoping they would invite you back to his quarters. His voice had painted an image your mind couldn’t will away.

Suddenly, he pulled you out of your seat so you stood before him. Your startled gaze locked with his, captivated by the icy blues as you waited anxiously for his next move. Your heart pounded out a lustful pattern in your chest. Scenarios flickered through your mind so vividly you feared he could see them written in your expression.

He leaned in so his lips just barely brushed over yours, so close you could almost taste him. “Don’t you?” he repeated, softer.

“Yes, sir,” you whispered.

Langdon spun you around and pinned you against the edge of the desk. His mouth descended upon yours, swallowing the gasp from your lips. Your head swam with his intoxication. You grappled at the lapels of his jacket to keep yourself grounded. The desk dug painfully into your back, but he sucked you in so far you paid no mind to the ache. The incessant one between your legs was much more demanding.

He pressed you down onto the surface of the desk, pulling back to admire your swollen lips and flushed skin. “I can already smell you,” he sneered. His hands yanked up the hem of your dress, bunching it at your lower stomach. “You need to be dominated. Fucked. Used.”

Langdon’s palm rested between your thighs. He hummed at the dampness soaking through the thin pair of panties. His fingers suddenly pushed the garment aside to reach your folds. You mewled and arched your back at the feel of his cool skin against your burning flesh. He chuckled and wrapped his hand around your throat, holding you in place firmly while he dragged his fingers through your slit, brushing your swollen clit with each stroke.

“Fucking drenched,” he mused. “So sensitive. I’ve barely even touched you, and you’re already about to cum.”

The pressure around your throat increased as he suddenly infiltrated your entrance. His fingers scissored and pumped, the pad of his thumb glancing around your throbbing clit. You slammed your eyes shut to avoid watching as he gazed down upon your vulnerability. He kept a steady rhythm, withdrawing his fingers just to shove them back inside harshly.

You melted into a puddle beneath his touch. Every sweep of his fingers against your gummy walls pulled noises you didn’t even know you could make. He squeezed your throat hard and commanded, “Look at me, (Y/N).”

You obeyed without hesitation. Any blue in his eyes had bled into a stormy night sky. Your eyes nearly rolled back in your head at the sight. His thumb finally found your clit, rubbing it in harsh, tight circles. Your head floated off into the clouds the more oxygen he deprived from you.

You curled your fingers around the edge of the desk. Nails grappled at the wood desperately. “Oh God,” you whimpered. Your hips rocked against his ministrations, your body screaming for more friction. More attention.

“God? Not quite.” Langdon chuckled smoothly, withdrew his fingers, and slapped your cunt harshly. You yelped before letting loose a wanton moan. “Do you think God will save you, Miss (Y/L/N), if I decide you’re nothing more than a pretty pussy?”

Without further preamble, he shoved three fingers inside of you. You cried out as you balanced on the precipice between pain and pleasure. Tears burned your eyes. Your body felt like it had turned into lead and became putty in his hands. He curled his fingers and fucked them into you so roughly you could almost see the stars erupting across your vision.

Keeping his gaze trained solely on your face, he hissed between his teeth, “Is God going to save you when I take this tight, virgin pussy and peel it apart like a fucking flower?”

Your vocabulary whittled down to a series of incoherent noises. Your toes curled inside your clunky, knock-off Mary Janes, and your legs trembled like a leaf quivering in the wind. You finally broke his stare to throw your head back. You barely noticed how it thudded against the surface of the desk, too lost in the boiling sea of passion licking you from head to toe. Your hips ground desperately into his hand as his fingers continued to stimulate the deepest parts of you.

Fire ignited your writhing body. White noise buzzed in your ears as a series of explosions erupted behind your eyes. You couldn’t hear anything he said—couldn’t hear the cries tumbling free from your lips, couldn’t hear the way your nails scraped against the wood like they tried to keep her grounded to reality. Every nerve ending lit up, synapses firing left and right, crossing from one neuron to the other, dancing to the beat of every muscle contraction contorting your body.

When the final waves started to recede, your body fell limp under him. Your eyes fluttered open as they tried to find his features. Langdon slowly unwrapped his hand from around your throat and withdrew his fingers. You whimpered at the empty feeling in their wake.

He brought his fingers, glistening with your cum, up to your mouth. “Clean them,” he demanded. Voice cool, his composure as immaculate as when you first stepped into his office. So impassive.

Langdon pushed his fingers past your lips. You swirled your tongue around the digits, sucking the taste of yourself off his skin, letting your essence coat your tongue. Your tired pussy twitched.

After a moment, he removed them and said, “Now clean yourself up. You’re dismissed.”

Still blinking away the haze swirling around inside your mind like a thick fog, you pushed yourself up. He turned to stand in front of the fire, hands clasped behind his back regally like you weren’t even there. You slowly slipped off the desk and fixed your clothing. The insides of your thighs were slicked with her own cum.

You fidgeted with your fingers, hesitating to move from your spot. Your interview was over. Did this mean he’d decided what would become of you? You prompted him quietly and watched as he spun to face you. His expression had hardened to something unreadable, much like when you first been called into the office. A cold feeling slid down to the pit of your stomach.

You swallowed thickly at the abrupt change in atmosphere. “Did I… Did I pass?”

His lips turned up just enough for you to think you caught it. The fire seemed to cast a golden halo around his lithe figure as he sauntered towards you. His features seemed to soften some the closer he stepped. The silence gnawed at you.

Langdon let his fingers curl around your chin, tipping your head up so your eyes locked. He ran his thumb along your bottom lip, as though admiring the swollen flesh left in the wake of his mouth. You could only stare at him, transfixed by his presence.

He smiled gently. “No.”

#american horror story #ahs apocalypse #ahs x reader #ahs smut #michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon smut #cody fern #🍄.ffn

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valyrianvibranium · 1 year ago

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THE DEVIL'S ADVOCATE.

Antichrist!Aemond Targaryen x female Reader

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MINORS DNI; dub con, p in v, fingering (with gloves 😮‍💨), dacryphilia, choking, degrading, unprotected sex, power imbalance, female reader

WORDS: 4.7 K

NOTES: Yes, this is based on American Horror Story Apocalypse. Michael Langdon is just so *phew* that I had to adapt it to Aemond. This is so self indulgent, I'm not even sorry. @kaelabear you're getting the special taglist. @arcielee thank you for beta reading this! <3

You have lost track of how many days, months, or even years have passed since your arrival in Outpost 3, and gods, you’d give it all right away to be back in one of the holding cells the government had put you in around the time the bombs rained down over King’s Landing.

Even though you received the status as a purple upon your arrival, therefore placing you to the upper-class elites specifically selected for survival, you couldn’t be worse off. At least there you’ve been allowed to do your own thing – as far as the confines allowed you to.

The nutritional cubes they serve you are rationed, with Ms. Misery announcing they’ll have to ration them even further in the next days, and on top of being hungry and bored, you haven’t had a good fuck in quite the while.

Sexual contact, or any kind of copulation, is strictly forbidden, and you’ve witnessed firsthand what it means to break Miserys’ rules – not that you’d make any moves on the other residents occupying the former exclusive boys school anyways.

It’s only been you and your hand, sometimes even your pillow, from the very beginning on until now, and truth be told? You’re sick of it.

At some point you’ve stopped getting yourself off, only because your body longed for physical contact, for someone else’s body on your own.

And what certainly doesn’t help with your misery is the mysterious man that arrived just a few days ago.

When he introduced himself as Targaryen, you knew his arrival was something that came partnered with power. As much as you would have liked to focus on his speech to campaign himself, you found it was far too difficult to care about humanity being on the brink of failure when the man telling you about it was so, so damn easy on the eyes.

Just the sight of his sharp features, regardless of a part of them being concealed by a black eyepatch, has been enough to make your mouth water. And when your eyes traveled lower, taking in the way his black slacks all but hugged his toned thighs, all was lost for you.

You’ve been grateful that Laenor pounced on him to be interviewed first, wanting to see if he'd be worthy enough to be relocated to the so-called sanctuary, because you certainly would have jumped Targaryens’ bones right then and there.

His alluring aura, the dominance radiating off of him – it all are factors that drive your aching body to insanity. and the nights that followed you found your relief more than once with the image of him flashing right before your eyes.

Some time has passed in which you’ve barely seen him around, only hearing of him through the stories of the other residents that have been interviewed by him; now it’s your turn to warm the large chair standing in front of the imposing Mahogany desk.

It’s the door behind you sliding open that lets your heart drop into the pit of your stomach, and you fidget with your fingers to stop yourself from turning around. You don’t want to be caught staring in the first few seconds already.

You hear your name fall past his lips so smoothly it sends a shiver down your spine. You give in to the temptation and watch him step inside with an air of mellow gratification, prowling around the desk until he eventually sits down in the empty seat across from you.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” he purrs, a glint of mischief dancing in his eye.

There comes no reply from you, instead you continue to fumble with your fingers, looking at what you assume to be your file splayed out on the desk in front of him.

It’s the dismissive hum that rumbles in his chest that finally piques your interest, and when your gaze settles on him again, you spot him touch his chin thoughtfully as his eye skimps over the pages, seeming as if he’s reading it for the first time.

The red gloves he wears stand in stark contrast to the otherwise colorless rest of his outfit, your gaze drawn to them like a moth to a flame. He has worn them upon his arrival already; the smooth leather shining in the dim light of the candles makes your mind wander to more indecent things.

He tilts his head up again to meet your gaze, his smooth and calming voice ringing out. “Your genetic profile would appear to be favorable, so you can say that this interview is solely conducted as a… precaution.” Though it’s meant to be reassuring, the deliberate pause he makes doesn’t seem convincing.

His words make you frown. “What for?” you ask, and you curse yourself for how blunt and bold your voice sounds. “Aren’t you in need of relocating the last few people that pass on good genes, now that this is the last outpost standing?”

The genuine laugh he offers you prompts you to lean back in your seat, juxtaposing the way he leans forwards in his. Something in the arrogance that radiates off of him, and the smug smirk he has on his lips, feeds your irritation.

“Doesn’t seem like you can afford to be picky,” you snap back at him.

He licks his lips, and although it’s not longer than a second, your mind immediately drifts off to think about how it would feel between your legs, how he would feel between them. You try to be subtle as you shift in your seat, barely moving enough to soothe the aching that blooms at the apex of them.

“We’re making the selections as carefully as possible,” he counters. The paper of your file is pinched between his index and thumb, rubbing it between the pads of his fingers. “We need to ensure the survival of humanity, and I’m sure you understand that we have to look for a certain level of ambition in the people we choose.”

Even though his explanation is vague, and doesn’t make much sense to you, it is strangely appealing. The word ambition is such a broad term that could mean anything from career-minded to cutthroat, yet you still have to figure out exactly what he means.

The tension grows thicker and thicker with each passing second of silence, and you feel a warm sensation spreading inside of you from his intense gaze – which is perhaps also due to the hint of desire that gleams in his eye as he regards you.

You try your best to ignore the way your heart races, wanting to diminish the warmth inside of you. But to no avail.

When he rises from his seat, your heart drops into your stomach again, and your eyes grow wide with curiosity and intrigue.

It’s a brief flicker of your eyes down his body that has you squeezing your thighs together, far too distracted by how tall he is than to notice the smug smirk that tugs at the corners of his lips.

“Would you say that you’ve… settled here?” he asks, his voice carrying a hint of something you find difficult to decipher.

He slowly stalks around the desk, the tips of his leather-clad fingers smoothly gliding over the dark wood. His eye lingers on your face, taking you in and assessing your reaction. His expression holds the same edge of darkness his voice does, though he isn’t hiding it as effectively as he thinks he is this time.

Your eyes never leave his frame when he comes to stand next to you, leaning back against the desk. He’s gripping the edge of it, and even in the dim light of the candles, you notice that it’s rather tightly, almost as if he’s suppressing the urge to touch you.

“Well, I suppose I’ve managed to adjust,” you reply.

For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. He just stares at you with this cold precision – until you catch his eye flitting lower, trailing over your form.

The purple gown you wear isn’t revealing at all, not that Ms. Misery would allow you to wear anything of that sort anyways. The neckline is squared with raised yet off-the-shoulder structured shoulders that leave little to the imagination – but only if you’ve been touch deprived for long enough.

And, judging by the way his jaw clenches as his eye meets yours again, you can tell it’s also been a while for him.

The thought of it makes your blood run hot, the warmth now spreading to your cheeks. Your gaze falls to your lap, watching your fingers fumble with each other while you feel his bore into your frame.

There’s a hum rumbling in his chest once again, but this time it sounds more like a purr, as if he finds satisfaction in your nervousness. “Are you normally this flustered in front of men… or is it just me?”

A sudden rush of excitement and embarrassment floods your veins as your mind processes his words; your head snaps back up to look at him, and you’re greeted by a teasing grin.

“I’m not flustered,” you reply, your voice only wavering slightly, yet you know that it’s clear to him that you’re not being very honest. He’s well aware of the effect he’s having on you.

He tsks, a dangerous glint in his eye. “I mean, I can see you,” he says, gesturing to you with his hand. “You’re licking your lips, you can’t meet my eyes for more than a few seconds, your cheeks are flushed – it’s clear your body yearns to be touched…” he trails off, smirking to himself as he briefly glances to the ground. “... by me.”

His statement catches you off-guard. A quick exhale from your nose leaves you feeling winded with the sensations of butterflies wreaking havoc within your body.

The silence between you lingers, heavy and thick as you ponder over his words, and you decide to go all in. You glance at him sideways, before speaking. “Is that so?”

His eye darkens at your coy demeanor, and with the corners of his quirking up into a sly smirk, he reveals just a glimpse of the devil that lurks beneath the angelic exterior. “Oh, it is,” he replies with a mocking tone. “I know you’re getting off to the thoughts of me at night, sweet thing. And even right now, you’re dripping for me. It’s almost pathetic.”

He almost seems relieved as he finally reaches to trace a gentle line over your exposed shoulder, starting at the crook of your neck. His light touch and the coldness of his gloves cause you to shiver involuntarily, and makes your breathing heavy.

As if he’s searching for something within yours, his eye narrows, and your mind races with the possibility of what such a look might signify.

“Look at you,” he purrs, licking his pouty lips. “You’re sitting here, just waiting for me to take things a step further – all the while I could smell that sweet pussy of yours ever since I’ve stepped into the room.”

Your mouth goes dry at his words, making it difficult to swallow, and you feel yourself clench around nothing; the urge to squirm in your seat is nearly overwhelming.

“That sweet scent of yours…” he trails off. Mesmerized by his words and confidence, you almost flinch when he pushes himself off the desk, slowly kneeling down to be on a level with you, hovering close to you like a predator pretending to pounce.

Your breath is heavy, and with your body still facing the desk, you’re forced to turn your head to the side to meet his gaze. There are mere inches between your faces now, and you feel his minty breath fan over your lips, swollen from how often you've licked them at this point.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, and heat follows where the cold leather of his gloves ghosted over your skin. “So desperate to be touched… to be filled,” he hums. While embarrassment blossoms inside of you, there’s no amusement laced within his silky voice. It’s as if he’s just stating facts. “Or am I mistaken?” Your name topples past his lips with so much ease, it makes you imagine how it would sound moaned by him.

Your head begins to swim. His scent, his domineering aura, the warmth emanating off of him – it’s all too much and not enough.

Meekly shaking your head, the ‘no’ you reply comes out not louder than a whisper.

He takes in a quick breath of air, relishing in his victory. The way you submit to him, to his power and dominance, feeds something within him; a hunger that’s been growing more and more demanding from the moment he stepped into the room with you.

“Good girl,” he purrs, slowly rising to his full height, stretching his fingers as he keeps his eye locked on you. A flush spreads over your cheeks at his praise, the subconscious urge to make him proud sending a shiver of excitement through your veins, feeding right into your desire to please him.

He’s standing again, letting his eye drift over your sitting frame for a moment too long, trailing down your neck, over the curves of your breasts, and settling in your lap. A gloved hand comes forward to pinch the skirts of your gown between his fingers, an almost disgusted look on his features.

“Take it off.”

“W-What?”

“W-w-what?” he mocks, the scoff he releases filling you with shame. “Take it off,” he repeats. “Or else I will take it off of you, and that won’t be any more pleasant.”

The thought of him undressing you seems tempting. A small part of you wants to protest, to say something along the lines of ‘you can’t just demand something like this’ but the other part craves this. It feels as if it’s quintessential for your body to survive, not able to go one day longer without being touched at all.

Rising to your feet, you smooth out the skirts of your dress before craning your neck to look up at him. He’s towering over you, hardly stepping back far enough to create any space for you to undress.

Having always been a bit of a pain to put on, getting out of the dress was even worse. The tight fit and squared neckline leaves you with very limited mobility, meaning you’re always relying on a servant to help you get out of it. And facing these difficulties, the thought of removing it all by yourself, especially in front of him, seems almost sacrilegious.

A thought pops into your mind, and your body is quick enough to get through with it before you can even think about it properly.

“Care to help me?” you ask, batting your eyelashes at him. Before he can refuse, you brush your hair over one shoulder and turn around, presenting him with your back and the tightly laced corset.

Much to your surprise, he doesn’t refuse, and you say nothing as his fingers find the lacing of your corset, gloves brushing your skin as he slowly undos the laces.

It’s a slow process, one that builds anticipation within you, and has you squeezing your thighs together yet again.

His caresses are light and careful at first, but they grow increasingly firm and forceful. Each tug and pull draws you closer to him, and only when you hear the same dismissive hum rumbling in his chest do you dare to glimpse at him from over your shoulder, seeing him staring at your back with his jaw set with a new purpose.

The fabric is still pinched between his fingers when they suddenly change course, gripping the purple fabric around the lace with a bit more force than necessary. He rips open the corset in a single, harsh motion in a clear display of his impatience, the torn fabric hitting the ground with a thud, and your gown quickly follows suit.

For a moment, you feel relief at being freed from its confines. But it’s fleeting, your skin immediately prickling as you become aware of how much of your body is exposed to him now.

It’s weird to think that this thin layer of modesty has been enough to keep your fluttering nerves at bay, and now it’s peeled away with you knowing he’s gazing at you as if he’s been served his first meal in months.

Easing your trembling legs, you hold onto the desk for support. It feels like an eternity as you crouch forward slightly to steady your uneven breathing, the moment only breaking as he advances towards you, his body leaning against yours and pressing you up against the desk. It’s the only thing keeping you upright, and the moment you feel his hot breath caress your neck, your legs feel like they are about to give in.

His thigh slips between yours, but you can’t feel his hands on your body, assuming he’s clasped them behind his back or kept them at his sides. You can tell that his chest isn’t the only firm thing that presses against your body, his cock rock hard and all but straining against your lower back, clearly finding as much pleasure in the situation as you do.

His proximity is all you’ve thought of for the past days, yet it’s not enough. You need his hands, him, to feel thoroughly satisfied. The urge to whine scratches in your throat, but you manage to swallow it at the last moment.

“Beg for me to touch you,” he drawls, voice laced with a mixture of excitement and hunger.

Exhaling a strained breath, you close your eyes. “P-Please,” you whimper, barely loud enough for him to hear. “Please… touch me. It’s been so long.”

“Hm.” You hear it loud and clear, the amusement, the satisfaction, causing your skin to heat up. “That’s all you’ve got?”

You tip your head back in frustration, meeting with his shoulder, a loud huff slipping past your lips. But you’re so close to getting what you want, there’s no way you’re giving up already.

“Please, please touch me… Mr. Targaryen.” His name is spoken with a bit of hesitation. “I-I- please, fuck, need it so, so bad. Please.” That you’re not stomping your feet on the ground like an insolent child is everything, knowing it would push your chance for relief further away.

But it seems to do the trick, because one gloved hand settles on your hip without him saying anything, while the other clasps around the outside of your thigh, his thumb brushing smooth patterns over your hot skin.

He drags his nose along the side of your face, his breath tickling your skin, and you slightly turn your head to lean into it. “Where else do you want me to touch, mh?”

Feeling him on every inch of your body has you far too aroused to be frustrated by his on-going teasing and stalling. “Right…” you pant, peeling his hand from your hip to bring it down between your legs, “... here.”

A quiet whine slips past your lips as his fingers make contact with your sensitive clit, the cold leather of his gloves against your hot skin striking you as a welcome surprise and sending a shiver down your spine. It feels foreign, but nice nevertheless.

You’ve fully anticipated him to pull back again, to leave you high and dry, but he surprises you again, when he drags his fingers through your swollen folds.

“Right here, mh?” he purrs into your ear with a husky voice.

It’s a grazing touch that alone is enough to make your mind hazy, merely humming in return.

He’s not doing more than rubbing your clit and brushing his digits through your folds, but you’re wet enough already for it to be audible. The squelching sounds coming from between your legs are embarrassing, clearly highlighting your desperation for him, and it only gets worse when he slips a finger inside of you.

Taking in a sharp breath, you hold onto the desk again. “God, fuck,” you whine.

His finger is thick enough to be accompanied with a slight burning stretch, intensifying the moment he adds another. You can’t resist the urge to grind against his hand, the base of it applying just enough pressure to your clit to numb any discomfort.

“You like that, mh?” he rasps. “So fucking wet and desperate for my fingers, dripping all over my glove.”

A string of whiny yesses leaves your lips as the pace of his fingers increases, making it incredibly difficult for your hips to maintain the rhythm.

Heavy breaths and pants fan over your flushed skin, spurring you on and bringing you closer to the sweet relief you’ve craved for so long. He seems to sense your impending orgasm, and works you just a moment longer, before he withdraws his fingers from you, making sure the loss would make it even worse.

But there’s no time to whine.

“Look at the mess you’ve made,” he teases, acting as if he’s completely oblivious to the torture he puts you through, and brings his gloved hand up to your face.

The red leather is covered in your arousal, sticky and glistening even in the dim light. As he spreads the two fingers, a few strings of it connect the leather, and you bite your bottom lip, knowing all too well what might follow.

“Open your mouth, pet,” he commands in a stern voice. “Clean up your mess.”

And you comply, parting your lips and eagerly embracing him pushing them inside. Your tongue swirls around the digits, the leather tasting and feeling completely different on your tongue.

You hardly notice that his other hand has left your thigh, and even less that he’s undoing the zipper of his slacks, pulling out his hard cock. Only when you feel the pressure against your entrance do your eyes widen, and you whine around his fingers as he pushes inside.

Even though you are stretched from his digits, it can not compare to his cock.

He’s filling you to the brim in one, swift thrust, and with you being gagged by his gloved fingers, you can’t do more than mewl and moan. “Fuck, tight cunt taking my cock, hm? That’s it, such a good, little pet.”

Not giving you the chance to adjust to his size, he sets up a reckless pace from the very start, his impatience running thin with the way your tightness embraces him. He fucks you as if it’s a one time thing, as if you won’t make the cut, but something inside of you tells you this is merely the beginning.

Saliva trickles down your chin as his cock drives deeper and deeper, forcing moan after moan past your lips and his gloved fingers. It’s the sounds of skin slapping against skin, his strained grunts and your muffled whines filling the room, and if Ms. Misery were to find out, you would be tortured or killed even before the next day arrived.

Maybe it’s the risk of being caught that drives him to his next step, but he withdraws his fingers from your mouth, gloved hand coming down to rest around your throat instead. He applies just a bit of pressure, merely meaning to hold you upright and steady to make it easier for him to use you to his liking.

You scramble for hold, sweaty palms planted flatly on the wooden surface in front of you, supporting yourself as the man behind you all but fucked every coherent thought out of your brain.

“Look at you,” he grunts, pounding into your needy cunt. The tip of his cock brushes your sweet spot, pushing high enough to knock the air out of your lungs and make you lose yourself. “All you’ve been thinking about was my cock. So desperate to be fucked by me, huh?”

You are so full with him, his scent, his warmth, everything, that breathy whines and yesses are the only things slipping past your lips.

He drags his nose along the side of your face, clearly relishing in the way he’s fucked you dumb with so little effort already, and you almost feel yourself come on spot the moment he presses his lips to your earlobe.

Pushing his hips all the way into yours, he stills them for a moment, bringing up a gloved hand to spit on his fingers and before dragging them harshly over your sensitive clit, and putting you straight into a frenzy.

The tears that were brimming in your eyes now spill and run down your flushed cheeks, hitting the desk he has you hunched over.

“No need to cry, pet,” the man behind you drawls, a satisfaction weaved in his husky voice. “You wanted this, didn't you? Wanted my cock to fuck you stupid? Or do you want me to stop?”

Your blank mind barely processes his words, but just hearing the word stop has you finding your voice again. “N-no,” you whine, arching your back and pressing your ass back against him. “Don’t-don’t stop, Sir. ‘M so, so close.”

“Close, mh? Then fucking come for me.”

With his hand now applying a good bit of pressure to your throat and his fingers strumming your clit in a reckless pattern, you feel yourself getting lightheaded as your release hits you suddenly.

His strained groans are hushed against your neck as you spasm around him, sucking him in hungrily. He works you through it, fucking you as you quiver and shake. Grinding against him, you ride your high out in rhythm with his thrusts, gasping each time his cock pistones inside of you.

His hips falter slightly for a moment, caught off guard by how tightly your walls are squeezing him, but he regains his composure and sets up a brutal pace again. You’re swollen and raw by now, but he doesn't stop.

“That’s it, fuck, I’m gonna get this pathetic cunt stuffed with my cum,” he grunts, pulling his hand from your clit to plant it on your hip.

Each rut of his hips makes your eyes journey to the ceiling, the tears on your cheeks now dry. There are hiccuped breaths spilling from your mouth, and you can’t do more than to hold onto the desk, bracing yourself for his relentless pounding.

With a stutter of his hips and a raspy groan escaping his throat, his cock eventually spills deep inside of you, coating your walls. He fucks it into you with deliberately slow thrusts, the last spurts of his warm release filling you to the brim.

A strained groan is audible as he pulls out, tucking himself back in his slacks, and assumes the cold demeanor he’s had before. The only courtesy he grants you is picking up your dress and underwear he’s torn off you before, holding it out for you to take.

You get the cue, and dress yourself on trembling legs. The blonde watches curiously, leaning back against the desk again. The red gloves now lay on the desk, and you catch a glimpse of his long, ring-clad fingers.

With flushed cheeks, you briefly look at the ground before presenting him your back again. “Do you mind?”

He nods and steps towards you, silently lacing up your corset, and whenever his skin brushes yours, a shiver runs down your spine. His skin is soft, smooth even, and the warmth emanating from them is far more pleasant than the cold leather.

But the moment is fleeting as he quickly moves to sit down behind his desk again, a new file already pinched between his fingers. You smoothen out the skirt of your dress, merely bowing your head once, and make a beeline for the door.

It’s his voice ringing out that stops you in your tracks, though you don’t dare to turn around.

“I expect you to come back for your second interview tomorrow. See it as an opportunity for me to gauge whether or not you truly have the right… ambition.”

“Thank you, Mr. Targaryen,” you mumble in return, a strange sense of satisfaction and anticipation already coursing through your veins.

Hearing your name once again, you turn your head to look at him. “There’s no need to be formal when it’s just us. You can call me Aemond.”

Taglist: @heimtathurs @croatianprincess @nina2697 @malfoytargaryen @thetaygaryen @wintrr13 @winter-soldier-101 @kyuupidwrites @boofy1998 @thekinslayersswordhand @sagelovesreading @jiminie-08 @doublesparrows @at-a-rax-ia @fan-goddess @recorddust @tsujifreya @melsunshine @drwstarkeyy @kazuyatokue @moonlightfoxx @bbgmonsay @thatmysteriousblog @ashovertheriver @black-dread @watercolorskyy @nothingqueens @urmomsgirlfriend1 @lovelykhaleesiii @hypocritic-trash-baby @darylandbethfanforever9 @snowystark @connorsui @valeskafics

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saintlucretia · 1 year ago

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Devil Wears A Suit

part Ⅰ

Pairings: Outpost!Michael Langdon x Female!Reader

Warnings: Mention of murder. Hot devil's son. Sexual harassment? Michael Langdon.

Summary: Y/N is a purple at Outpost 3 and gets interviewed by Mr. Langdon.

A/N: I will go to hell for this and I am not opposing if he will be there too.

After 18 months at the underground Outpost life was as dreadful as being killed by a bomb explosion. Or worse. A bunch of snobs and shallow cowards. It was clear as day, that it was just a matter of time before everyone was at each other's throats.

It wasn’t the Outpost itself or the fact that we are the last human beings on this planet that made everything so depressing. It was boredom. A hole in my head. The only bearable person here was Mr. Gallant. Without his company at the dining table, I could have stuck a fork into my neck.

That evening Ms. Venable announced to us about a visitor. The agent of the Cooperative. Even though she remained calm as usual I sensed a note of fear in her voice. So it means this new man has great authority. I was grateful for any kind of entertainment, even if it meant a bloody revolution. After 18 months with the same people, fresh meat is always dainty.

Ms. Venable ended her speech when a tall man with long blond hair entered the room. He had a dark aura. The aura of power.

“My name is Langdon and I represent The Cooperative,” he said, circling our table. “Humanity is on the brink of failure.”

I glanced at the other residents of the Outpost. They all looked tense and nervous, especially Ms. Venable. She seemed almost afraid of him. Only Mr. Gallant seemed as amused as me. We glanced at each other and I immediately understood what was on his mind. After all, he had a good taste in men.

“My arrival here was crucial to the survival of civilized life on Earth.” His speech was persuasive, words sharp and his blue eyes pierced into all of us. Such an ability to capture everyone's attention was making me delighted.

He stopped at the head of the table and continued. “The three other compounds have been overrun and destroyed.”

“What happened to the people inside?” asked Timothy worried.

“Massacred,” answered Langdon and I think I caught the shadow of a grin on his face.

I bit my lip to stop myself from chuckling. I had to admit, this Langdon was a very attractive man. And Mr. Gallant was obviously admiring his appearance too. But there was something about The Cooperative representative that made me feel uneasy. It was as if he was hiding something. Something very bad.

“In the knowledge that this very moment might occur, we built a failsafe… The Sanctuary,” he said, placing his hands behind his back. “I have been sent to determine if any of you are worthy and fit to join us. The Cooperative has developed a particular and rigorous questioning technique we like to call ‘Cooperating’. Simply, I will determine if you belong.”

I remained silent, analyzing the situation. Everyone seemed wary and looked at others with distrust. Only Coco didn’t have enough brains to remain silent and tried to openly express her dissatisfaction. Fortunately, her tirade was abruptly suppressed.

“I volunteer to go first.” Mr. Gallant raised his hand.

“And so you shall,” Langdon said threateningly, looking us over. He had a cold, calculating look in his eyes. I had a feeling that he already knew who he was going to select.

“The process should only take me a couple of days, so you won’t be kept in suspense forever. I look forward to meeting each and every one of you.” I felt his gaze on me and barely restrained myself from looking away.

Langdon left the room and everyone immediately started to argue. A bunch of morons, all of them. I rolled my eyes and leaned back in my chair, observing the conversation. Everyone began to share their suspicions and guesses, but of course, they were all too wrapped up in their own fear to notice the whole thing. The Cooperative looked at us as laboratory rats and no one seemed to see that. Pathetic.

I let out a sigh of annoyance and left the room.

✦✦✦

I ran into Malcolm in the hallway an hour later and looked at him questioningly.

“Oh, darling, I almost had a heart attack." He came closer and started whispering "I'm a bit scared of him. He is definitely hot as hell, but twice as evil."

I chuckled. "Well, that's quite a review. Did he tell you anything new?"

Mr. Gallant leaned even closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. "He asked me a lot of personal questions...I mean really personal."

I raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"

“Like my sexuality for example. And my nana. And other… things. Pretty intimate. I felt so uncomfortable, but I tried to keep it cool.”

My eyebrows furrowed in interest. So these "Cooperating" sessions were, indeed, quite unique. It seemed like Langdon wanted to know every minuscule detail about each person. I began to wonder what kind of "personal" questions he would ask me. I also began to wonder why I was so looking forward to the moment.

“I felt like he was trying to rip out my soul.” Added Malcolm in a whisper.

I smirked. "Well, that's quite a dramatic way to describe it." Malcolm chuckled nervously but I had a feeling that he wasn't exaggerating. Langdon was certainly not the type of man that you could fool easily. He could see right through people.

But something was intriguing. I felt a strange thrill at the idea of uncovering the depth of Langdon's scrutiny.

"I guess I'll have to brace myself for my turn then," I said nonchalantly.

“Good luck sweetheart.” We kissed each other on the cheek and went in different directions.

I slowly walked to my quarters, lost in thought. I was feeling an inexplicable mixture of excitement and curiosity. The thought of being examined by Langdon, being exposed under the watchful gaze of his sharp eyes, was somehow appealing. God, I have to stop.

I shook my head firmly, trying to dismiss these thoughts. "This is ridiculous," I mumbled to myself softly.

Suddenly I heard something. Something like a scream perhaps. I stopped and looked around. There was no one except me in this dimly lit hall. And then this sound again. More like a whisper now. Millions of whispers. My head began to spin slightly. I closed my eyes and tried to focus. Silence. Everything went quiet. I turned around and flinched as I saw Langdon behind me.

“Mrs. Y/S, I’d like to talk with you next.”

I looked up at Langdon with a surprised expression, silently cursing myself for being so lost in my thoughts to the point of not noticing him coming closer. His presence was so powerful that it still made my heart flutter even now.

"Lead the way," I replied, trying to maintain my composure.

Langdon didn't bother answering, simply gesturing for me to follow him. I walked behind him through the maze of halls and rooms.

We finally reached the entrance to what appeared to be his cabinet. Langdon stepped aside, allowing me to enter first. Entering the room, I noticed how dark and ominous it felt. The walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with old leather-bound volumes. The main source of light was a fireplace.

Langdon gestured for me to sit down on the armchair across from him. I lowered myself gently, straightening my purple dress.

He studied me, wanted me to be nervous, wanted me to crack. I knew this game. I have played this game with many different powerful men, who think they are Gods because they have dicks. I never lose in a game like this.

His eyes searched my face, trying to find any sign of weakness. But I held his gaze firmly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me intimidated.

I leaned back in my seat, a small smirk on my lips. "I see you're expecting me to be quivering in my boots," I said with a hint of sarcasm.

Langdon chuckled darkly. "Is that so?" he asked, leaning slightly forward.

A silence fell between us, and I held his gaze without flinching. Something about his demeanor made my heart beat a little faster, but I was determined not to show it.

“I prefer conversations to be effective, Mr. Langdon.”

Langdon raised an eyebrow at my remark, a smirk forming his lips. He leaned back in his seat, folding his arms across his chest. "Straight to the point, are we?"

He studied me for a moment, his eyes still locked onto mine.

"Well, I can appreciate a straightforward woman," he said, his voice surprisingly smooth. "It makes the process much more efficient."

He paused for a moment, his gaze never faltering. "Ms. Y/S," he began, my name rolling off his tongue like a sinful whisper. "Allow me to ask you a personal question."

“Ask,” I replied.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. His eyes were laser-focused on me, and I could practically feel his gaze trying to pierce through my soul.

"What do you fear the most?" he asked, his tone almost gentle.

I was caught off guard by the question and made a mistake. Langdon noticed the slight flicker of surprise in my eyes. He chuckled softly. "That's what I thought," he said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "You may have mastered the art of bravado, but everyone has a weakness," he continued. "And I'm here to find yours."

I watched him back and after crossing my legs answered "I fear being surrounded by idiots for the rest of my life." I needled.

Langdon raised an eyebrow, visibly amused. "Well, you certainly have a way with words, don't you?", he said, his lips curling into a smirk.

He leaned back in his seat, studying me closely. "Being trapped in a group of lesser minds for eternity may be torturous, especially for a woman of your... intelligence."

“For a man of your power, it’s a pity that you use flattery as a term of manipulation,” I said, tilting my head in a mocking manner.

Langdon chuckled, clearly enjoying the challenge. "Ah, so observant," he said, still maintaining his smirk.

He leaned slightly forward, his gaze never leaving mine. "I'm not just using flattery, Ms. Y/S. I do recognize your intellect. But don't mistake my compliments for manipulation. I simply use the tools at my disposal."

“Huh.”

Langdon chuckled again, clearly appreciating my dry response. "You have a sharp tongue," he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “It may be your unique feature or a pathetic attempt to hide your fear.”

I could feel a flicker of irritation at his words, but I forced myself to remain impassive. Langdon was trying to get a reaction out of me, and I was determined not to give him the satisfaction.

"Perhaps it's a little bit of both," I replied, my voice cool and steady. "Or perhaps you're simply not used to people who don't cower easily in front of someone higher in rank."

He stood up from his seat and started circling me slowly, the sound of his footsteps echoing through the room. “Be careful, Ms. Y/S. Your bold attitude is admirable, but at some point, this can play a cruel joke on you.” His gaze burned into me as he studied me from every possible angle.

“I appreciate the warning,” I said coldly. “I don't fear intimidation tactics.”

“You are a brave woman.” Langdon's voice was suddenly close behind me, his breath lingering on the nape of my neck. A small shiver ran down my spine, and I had to suppress the urge to turn around and look at him.

“A little too brave, some would say.” he continued, his words almost a whisper. “Tell me, Ms. Y/S, is it hard to be the smartest in the room? To be forced to communicate with idiots?”

There was a hint of mockery in his tone that made me nauseous. But I still refused to let him see any sign of weakness. I sat up straighter in my chair, lifting my chin.

“It can be... annoying at times,” I admitted.

“It is irritating how arrogant the upper class is, isn’t it? Especially toward women.” I felt the touch of his fingers on my arm and I barely restrained myself from snatching my hand away. “The world before the bombs wasn’t that much brighter than this one, was it? They all mistreated you, and never took you seriously… Does the idea of them having everything infuriate you?”

His words hit a nerve, the subtle truth in them cutting through my defenses. Yes, the world before the bombings was far from perfect, and I had my fair share of disappointments.

But I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing that he had managed to hit a weak spot. I turned my head slightly, meeting his gaze. “And what makes you think you're any different from them?”

He chuckled darkly, his fingers trailing along my skin, tracing patterns against the fabric of my dress. His nonchalant arrogance was both infuriating and strangely enthralling.

“Oh, I never claimed to be any different," he responded, his voice low and husky. “But I will say this - I appreciate intelligence, especially in women. I can see your potential.”

“Potential,” I repeated, struggling to keep my tone even. “For what, exactly?”

Langdon ignored my question. His hands, now both on my arms, crawled up to my shoulders. “Have you ever thought about punishing them? About finally showing what you are capable of, so they would never think you are only ‘pretty face’ again?” His breath tickled my ear. “Have you ever thought about making them scared of you?”

His hands on my shoulders were deceptively gentle, yet they seemed to burn against my skin through the fabric of my dress. His breath was warm against my ear as he whispered his words, making my breath hitch in my throat.

I felt a strange mixture of anger and... excitement at his words. The thought had crossed my mind more than once if I was being honest with myself. To show them ALL how strong and brilliant I truly was. To shuffle a knife into someone’s throat. I remained silent.

“I sense this force in you, Y/N.”

His voice seemed to fill the space between us, wrapping around me like a dark, intimate spell. He leaned closer, his chest almost pressed against my back. His hands remained on my shoulders, his fingers gently massaging my tense muscles.

There was something about his voice, the way he said my name, that sent a shiver down my spine. It was as if he could see right through me, past the cool exterior I had been trying to maintain. He knew about the anger, the desire, the fire burning within me.

“I can tell you have a dark side,” he murmured, his voice deep and low.

“I-I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” His hands continue to stroke my shoulders gently. He was amused by my denial.

“You don't have to play coy with me, Ms. Y/N," he said, his voice velvety smooth. “I can feel it radiating off of you. That simmering anger, that burning desire."

Langdon leaned in closer, his lips almost brushing against my ear. “You want... power. And I can promise you that.”

His words were a seductive murmur, weaving their way into my mind and planting thoughts of power and revenge. It was as if he knew exactly what buttons to push, what desires to awaken within me.

"Power," I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper. My mind was swimming, both alarmed and intrigued by his proposal. I felt like I was hypnotized. "Why… What’s the point?"

Langdon chuckled softly, noticing the effect his words were having on me. He stepped away from me, his hands finally leaving my shoulders. He walked around the chair, standing in front of me again.

"Because, my dear," he began, "I've observed your potential. Your intelligence, your resourcefulness, your strength. You're not like the other people in this house. You have ambition. And ambition can lead to power."

He tilted up my chin gently, so I could meet his gaze. "And I can help you achieve it." His thumb traced my jawline, sending a shiver down my spine.

When his finger brushed against my bottom lip I grabbed his hand, stopping him. He smirked and leaned closer, his face only a few inches away from mine.

“Something wrong, Ms. Y/S?” he asked, his tone laced with mockery. “Did my touch... unsettle you?”

With a swift, almost graceful movement, Langdon sank to his knees in front of me. His hand found its way to my knee, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of my dress.

“I think the interview is over,” I said, trying to stand up, but he pressed on my knee, not letting me get up.

“I will decide if it’s over or not, Ms. Y/S,” Langdon smirked at my silence, slowly running his hand higher up my thigh. He could clearly see the effect he was having on me, the slight tremble in my body.

“What?” he drawled, his voice dripping with mockery. “No witty comeback? No clever quip? Seems like you're losing your grip.”

"Losing my grip?" I repeated, trying to keep my voice steady. "Hardly. I am just amused by your behavior." Even a blind person would see my bluff and feign confidence.

“Oh? Really?” He stood up a bit, leaning closer to my face, almost whispering in my mouth. His proximity was intoxicating, his breath hot against my lips. I could feel my heart pounding against my ribcage, the desire coursing through my veins like a current. He slowly brushed his lips against mine and I felt a touch of his tongue on my bottom lip.

It felt like drugs. It felt better than drugs. His tongue teasingly tracing along my bottom lip sent a shiver down my spine, making my legs tremble beneath me. It was overwhelming. I have never felt like this before. In that very second I could do anything for this man.

Suddenly he stopped and looked me right into my eyes, smirking satisfiedly almost like he read a thought that just got in my mind.

He stood up, turning away from me and I bit my tongue not to moan in disappointment.

“We’re done for today, Ms. Y/S. It was a pleasure talking to you,” He said, opening the door for me. Smirk remained on his face, but Langdon seemed very calm. As if he didn’t just kneel and almost kiss me two minutes ago.

I needed a few seconds to understand what had happened, so I blinked and then quickly stood up walking toward the door.

“Hope you have a good night, Ms. Y/S,” he said watching me and I can swear, as he was saying that, his hand slid to cover his groin and he definitely wanted me to notice that.

“Good night, Mr. Langdon,” I mumbled and left the room.

What the fuck has just happened?

part two

#I NEED him in the most sinful ways #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon #cody fern #ahs apocalypse #ahs fandom #michael langdon x you #michael langdon imagine #american horror story #ahs coven #ahs murder house #mr gallant

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americanwh0rerstory · 9 months ago

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THE ANTICHRISTS FAVOURITE

Michael langdon x f!reader: platonic pairing

SUMMARY: reader and michael were best friends long ago. so when he shows up at outpost 3, what will happen?

CONTENT WARNING: none

A/N: i hate writing for michael because i can never perfect his character, but i need to get better at writing him for kinktober </3

NO NSFW ENJOY THE FIC

you had known michael for many years. forever his number 1 defender, and forever his best friend

you brought out the slither of goodness in him. he tried to suppress the evil urges and intentions, but for you he was good. occasionally you’d receive the odd dead rodent, but it was from michael so you never once complained

one day, however, he just disappeared. you never saw him again. constance refused to speak of him, and you couldn’t ever talk to the other ghosts of the murder house. save from moira, that was.

you never forgot michael. you never forgot the happy feeling you got when he was around, you never forgot that child-like grin he’d flash when he’s happy, you never forgot the gut wrenching feeling that flooded you when you realised he was gone. even years later you’d still cry over him, wondering what happened to your best friend

the world ended. you never got to say goodbye. you was hauled off to outpost 3 never knowing what happened to michael, you desperately hoped he would be there but he wasn’t. it was over, michael was gone…

for 18 more months.

when the long haired and mysterious man entered the outpost on behalf of the cooperative, it took you by surprise. something about him screamed familiarity yet you couldn’t place your finger on it

when addressing your living companions, his gaze lingered on you a few times but never for long. there was something in those seducing eyes that piqued your interest, something you wanted to get lost in. however you was soon snapped out of your trance when he said his name

“i am michael langdon” he said with confidence, the confidence of a natural born leader, someone with power, someone who could make heads then just from the way he carried himself.

it got even worse when the interviews began. you was second in the queue so whilst Mr. Gallant was being interviewed, all you felt was that sickly anxious feeling combining with the thumping in your chest. your heart sounded nearly like a hummingbird with how fast it was beating.

———————————————————————-

“take a seat” michael began when you entered his office, motioning to the conveniently placed chair. however you couldn’t hold back and wrapped him up in a tight hug, mumbling something about how much you missed him

after a moment of hesitation he returned the hug with one arm, holding you gently against his chest

“im not here for affectionate reunions Y/N. i still need to interview you for the position” he reminded you as he pulled away, towering over you with his imposing figure.

he practically probed into your brain with his question, asking invasive questions that made you question yourself. but it was necessary. you wanted, no, NEEDED that position. you needed to spend time with michael again

his cold and calculating gaze never left you for even a second, analysing your every move. every subtle twitch, the goosebumps rising on the back of your neck, the nervous tick you had of scratching your fingers. he saw it all.

“you’re different to what i remember. in the way you carry yourself, i mean” he begins. “a shell of your former self, more meek than you were ever before” he finished, stating it factually like the observational person he was

“that concludes the interview though. you may leave. i’ll see you soon”

it didn’t end there though. you snuck out of your bedroom that night, making your way to where michael was staying. you had to see him, just one final moment with him. just closure for the years of separation, at least that’s what you told yourself.

he was sleeping peacefully, laying flat on his back with his arms pressed to his sides. it looked almost corpselike with how stiff he seemed to be when he slept. but the second you closed the door behind you, his eyes snapped open.

“what’re you doing here? you’re not allowed to be outside your room, let alone in mine” he scolded, eyebrows knitting with confusion as to why you were here. his lips pursed together in a thin line, holding back some harsher words he could use.

“i just needed the closure, i haven’t seen you in so long that i needed a final goodbye” you explain softly, standing by his bed. he shifted over to allow you to sit down, which you did when prompted

“well you’ve seen me now. i have a job to do, Y/N. my father sent me for a reason” he sighs “just go back to your quarters, we have plenty of time tomorrow to ‘see’ each other” he dismissed you, but he noticed the frown that threatened to break out on your lips

“did i get in?” you ask as you grasp the doorhandle, ready to leave. your eyes were trained on michael as he settled himself back into his bed

“you was always in. i just needed everyone else to think they had a chance” michael admitted after a careful moment of hesitation, reluctant to tell you that fact.

“just don’t tell anyone, i’d like them to think this is non-biased. goodnight, Y/N

#american horror story #ahs apocalypse #ahs season 8 #cody fern #michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x you #michael langdon x y/n

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7-wonders · 1 year ago

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Requiem

Michael Langdon x Reader (Mad Love Act II, Chapter XVI)

Summary: It's all led to this, and now, you have to face off against Michael to get your world back.

Word Count: 6.3k

A note from the author: This chapter is so, so dark. Sorry? Also, this chapter relies a lot on the she/her pronouns this story was first started with btw. (more notes at the end)

I noticed when posting this that it looks like the previous chapter didn't load a lot of tags. If you got tagged in this and are like "wait how did we get to the fight already?" you missed the last chapter! Click on the Mad Love Masterlist to read Chapter 35. :)

Content warnings for this chapter include graphic depictions of injury and death. Reader discretion is advised.

Mad Love Masterlist

Mallory warned you prior to leaving your room that the residents of Outpost 3 were all dead, murdered at the hands of Ms. Venable and her poisoned apples (you try not to dwell on your own poisoned apple experience). All the preparation in the world doesn’t prepare you for the shock of seeing two dead bodies, those of Coco and Dinah, in the large foyer of the Outpost. Shock turns to revulsion as one of Mallory’s friends and other witches yanks a knife out of Coco’s skull with little more than a wince. When she stands, she points the knife at you.

“She gonna help us?” she asks warily.

“She is.” Mallory turns to you, pointing first to the woman with the knife and next to another woman standing near the stairs. “This is Queenie and Zoe.”

You wave sheepishly. “It’s nice to meet you two.”

Zoe smiles kindly, but Queenie just appraises you with a look that says she doesn’t trust you. You can’t say that you blame her, though you wish she didn’t have a reason for this reaction. Mallory leaves your side to kneel in between the two dead women, and you watch as she takes a deep breath and breathes out onto Coco’s face before repeating her movements with Dinah.

It takes mere seconds for the two to shoot up, gasping for air and trying to get used to once again inhabiting a body.

“Welcome back,” Mallory says.

“What just happened?” Coco asks, her elaborate hairdo impressively staying put after all of that.

“You died. And now, you’re no longer dead.”

“Oh.” She frowns, rubbing at the spot where a knife sat moments ago. “Fuck, that sucked.”

“Are you going to explain why you tore us from our afterlives?” Dinah snaps, standing up.

“It’s time to fix this entire mess. To defeat Michael, we need all the help we can get.” Mallory eyes Dinah specifically. “From both of you.”

“You’re on your own with that shit,” Dinah declares. “I’m not here to defeat anyone.”

Maybe it’s not your place, but you feel like you can help to convince Dinah. You take a step toward here. “Please, I really think that—”

“How can any of you defeat me, when I’ve already won?” A voice, so familiar to you that it could be your own, comes from the stairs.

You almost don’t want to look at him. If you don’t, maybe you can remain in this stasis where you’re simply preparing to undo the apocalypse, instead of being faced with the reality that you��re about to fight your own husband, the man who, despite all of the horrors he’s committed, remains your love. When you do tear your eyes away from Dinah, you see that he’s not even taking notice of your presence. No, he only has hate-filled eyes for the Supreme.

Michael’s changed into a blood-red jacket, which makes it obvious that he was expecting this showdown to happen. Ms. Mead stands off to his left side, ever the small, imposing bodyguard. Mallory steps forward, along with most of the group. You can’t bring your feet to move, so you remain back with Dinah.

“You haven’t won,” Mallory says.

“Perhaps you haven’t noticed the state of the world.”

Queenie scoffs. “At least the world can be saved. Unlike your bitch ass.”

Michael smirks proudly. “The seventh seal has been broken. Wormwood has fallen from the sky and turned the rivers to blood and fire. The bottomless pit has been opened and my swarms of locusts and scorpions have ravaged humanity. The world has been remade in my father’s image.”

When he speaks like this, of biblical imagery and prophecy, he turns into a person you don’t care to know. He turns into the Antichrist.

“Almost.” Mallory smiles. “Pretty sure he didn’t imagine a world where there were still witches, so you failed there.”

Michael finally takes in the full group, and his haughty demeanor falters when he sees you. Softly, he utters your name. “What are you doing?”

You swallow thickly, willing your voice not to shake. “I think you know.”

“I do. You’re going to betray me?

Mallory tries to grab your arm as you move in front of her, but you can’t be stopped now. “This is not betrayal. I’m doing this because I love you, and I can’t bear to be faced with the monster that you’ve become any longer. Now, we have a chance to save the world, Michael. Help me undo this mess.”

“Michael,” Mallory gets his attention once more. “Your father never commanded you to end the world in this way. Jeff and Mutt, the two that ran Kineros, were the ones who thought a nuclear apocalypse was the solution. They controlled Ms. Mead and gave her the commands to tell you that this was Satan’s plan. Satan was just happy to take credit when he realized that you were going to cause anarchy.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Michael says.

“Is it? They told me so themselves, when I went to Kineros to ensure that Coco would be in this Outpost.”

He rolls his eyes. “This is such an obvious lie, I’m a little offended that you would think I’d fall for it. Right, Ms. Mead?”

Michael looks to his left, expecting to be backed up, only to see Ms. Mead with a look of bewildered shame on her face.

“Ms. Mead?”

“They—I do as I’m programmed,” she stutters.

You gasp at the revelation. Satan didn’t come up with the plan to end the world like this? All of this could have been avoided?

Instead of being faced with the same reckoning, a look of absolute murder appears on his face. “I’m going to do what I should have done that day in the Murder House and kill you all personally.”

“Mallory,” Dinah calls, walking towards the Supreme. “You raised me from the dead so that you would have the power of voodoo on your side. But if you know anything about who I am, you know that the only choice I’d pick would be the winner.”

She comes to a stop just before the stairs, bowing her head respectfully. Michael raises a hand out to her, ready to welcome another acolyte. You throw Mallory a panicked look, but she’s barely holding back glee.

“You’re half-right, Dinah,” she admits.

“She needed the help of a powerful voodoo queen,” a deep Southern voice says. You turn and watch as a tall woman with long braids struts up to Dinah. “But that ain’t you, sis .”

“The former Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau,” Mallory whispers into your ear.

“To release me from hell, Mallory promised Papa Legba the darkest and most corrupt voodoo queen’s soul for mine. You’ll serve him well in my place.”

“You’re a fool, Marie Laveau,” Dinah spits. “You would have done no different if you were queen.”

“No!” Marie says, before disappearing in a puff.

Not even a second later, she reappears behind Dinah wielding a machete. When Dinah turns to face her, Marie brings the machete down in one swing on her throat. Dinah gasps and screams as blood begins to gush out of her neck, falling to the floor and bleeding out in a matter of seconds. Nobody else seems to be affected by this, but you feel a little faint, and you hold onto Mallory’s arm to keep from collapsing.

“Out with the trash!” Marie declares. “Give Papa my regards.”

Michael, apparently having enough of this, nods to Ms. Mead. The android removes her hand to reveal a machine gun hidden underneath it. Though you want to say something along the lines of, “What the actual fuck?” Zoe says a word in what you assume to be Latin before you can.

Instead of shooting, Ms. Mead begins to shake and whir mechanically. Mallory uses Michael’s confusion to usher everybody back towards the open fire, where you watch as Ms. Mead explodes and sends Michael flying over the railing. He lands harshly on the floor below, staring in horror at Ms. Mead’s head next to him.

It’s only a matter of time until his horror turns to rage, and Queenie scrambles forward to grab Ms. Mead’s machine gun hand. When Michael rises, she rises with him, gun trained on his chest.

“Sorry about your little toy,” Queenie says before placing her finger on the trigger.

Michael turns to be met with a firestorm of bullets, more than enough to kill even the Antichrist. You scream in horror at the sight, his blood spattering against the wall as he falls and comes to rest against it, very obviously dead.

“Michael!” You try to stand, wanting to save him even though he probably (definitely) deserves what’s just happened to him. Before you can, Mallory pulls you to her.

“This won’t keep him down,” she assures you. “He’s too powerful to be truly killed. But this will buy us time.”

Though you don’t know if you believe her, you need to in order to keep from emotionally collapsing, so you nod.

Queenie walks to Michael’s body, kicking his foot as she checks to make sure he’s dead…for now, at least. “Do we need his hair or something for this? Because I’m more than happy to rip off a chunk of it.”

“No. The spell only requires that we have something personal of his.” Mallory smiles at you. “And we have the most important person in his life here with us. As long as you’re still in?”

You force yourself to look away from Michael, closing your eyes and taking a couple of deep breaths to recenter yourself. Finally, you look at her again. “Of course, I’m still in.”

“Good. Have you picked a time that will work to stop him?”

“I think so,” you confirm. After some internal deliberation, you think that the best way to get through to him is going to be when you had the big fight about the poisoned apple, before you stormed out and got yourself kidnapped by the witches. He wasn’t too powerful or too far gone with his father’s plan yet, but you were both in love with each other—albeit, you hadn’t actually realized it at that point.

“Alright. I’ll need you to focus on that, okay? Then I’ll say the spell, and we’ll be able to go back in time. We just need somewhere safe to cast the spell, somewhere with a large tub we can fill with water.”

You definitely found a room like that when you were exploring the Outpost your first couple of days here. “Okay. Follow me.”

Everybody stands, but hesitates when they remember the issue of Michael. If he’s going to come back to life like Mallory says, shouldn’t there be some safety measure in place to buy you more time?

Queenie sighs and rolls her eyes, realizing that she should probably be that safety measure. “Go,” she urges, readjusting her grip on the gun to ensure she’ll be quick to the trigger when Michael rises again.

Mallory darts forward to hug her quickly. “Thank you.”

“Enough with the sappy shit.” Even as she says that, you can see the affection in her eyes when she looks at Mallory. “Go!”

You do as she says and hurry up the stairs. Before you turn the corner, you allow yourself a moment to meet Michael’s open, lifeless gaze.

The hallways are much less of a maze than they were when you first arrived here, but the layout is still unfamiliar to you. After leading your group down what you thought was going to lead to the door you were sure contained the room with the tub, you’re met with a dead end.

Sheepishly, you look over your shoulder at Coco. “I think I’m a little lost. Isn’t there a room with a really large washtub for laundry around here?”

Her eyes light up, and she lightly pushes you to keep you moving. “Yes! We’re super close.” It’s going to take a bit to get used to her actually being helpful, you think as you follow her directions. “We’re going to go down this hallway here. Now, the weird little junction up ahead? Take a left and then it’s the third door on the right.”

Now you know where you are. “Thank you! I found it my first time going through the Outpost, but I haven’t lived here for eighteen months like you.”

You’re just about to turn left at the junction when a man appears from the other side of the hallway, jabbing a knife into your abdomen before you can even be surprised at the sight. You cry out, the pain sharp and sudden as he pulls the knife out of you with nothing but malice on his face. When he looks up at you, his scowl is replaced by a horrified shock.

“Oh my god, I thought you were—” He sees Coco, standing just behind you. “She was supposed to be you !”

Your shaking hands try to press down on the wound, but blood rushes out through your fingers, and your knees go weak as you crash into the wall. Down the hall, you can hear Mallory scream your name. She runs for you with Zoe hot on her heels.

“What the fuck did you do?” Mallory yells to the man, landing next to you on the floor and gently pulling your hands away so that she can assess the damage. By the way her lips start to tremble, you assume it’s not good.

The man that stabbed you ignores her, instead focusing on Coco. “You ruin everything!” he yells at her, lifting the knife once more.

Coco pushes him over the railing before he can do any more damage. He screams the whole way down, and Coco peers after him. “Sorry?” she calls with a grimace, no love apparently lost.

“This is…a lot of blood,” you note, watching your black dress becoming even darker from the rapidly expanding bloodstain. You’re also in a lot of pain. Fuck, you didn’t think being stabbed would hurt so much.

“It’s okay! It’s alright!” Mallory soothes; you can’t tell who she’s reassuring, herself or you. “I’m going to fix this. I’m going to—I’ll heal you, and then you’ll be fine.”

Your heart is pounding from a mixture of fear and adrenaline. For the first time since your arrival to this Outpost, you’re truly scared. This is a different fear from when you were worried about Emily and Timothy being executed, or when you realized that Michael wanted to have a child with you. It’s even different from the fear of knowing that you and Michael would be on opposing sides now. This is primal—this is terror.

Mallory’s hands hover over your abdomen as she begins to chant in Latin, eyes screwed shut in concentration. Nothing happens, and as the seconds tick by, your entire body starts to go cold. It’s like somebody’s taken a syringe of ice water and injected it right into your veins. You become more faint than before, and decide that laying flat will probably be the best way to rid yourself of this feeling.

“Why isn’t this working?” Mallory cries in frustration, catching your head and placing it in her lap. Tears begin to build in her eyes as she tries the same breathing technique on you as she did Coco and Dinah to bring them back to life, to no avail. You cough wetly, and when you wipe your mouth, your hand comes away red.

The realization hits you then: you’re dying. The overpowering cold, being unable to sit up anymore, the faintness—your body is beginning to shut down against your will.

“Mallory, I’m scared,” you admit.

“I know. I’m sorry. I promise I’m trying.”

“I know.” You smile at the repetition even as you begin to feel so, so tired. Maybe if you close your eyes and rest for a moment, you’ll be able to get enough strength back to help you fight to stay alive.

Your eyes barely close before Mallory starts shaking you. “No, no, please don’t close your eyes!”

Marie Laveau appears at the far end of the hallway you first ran down and yells something to Mallory, but you can’t quite make out what she says over the rushing in your ears. Mallory takes one of your arms and Zoe takes the other, both working together to pull you down the hallway. You watch dizzily as Coco runs to Marie, your vision warping as the two disappear around the corner.

Mallory continues trying to heal you once they have you in the room where you’re meant to go back in time. Her hand, soaked in your blood, runs over your forehead comfortingly as she becomes more frantic in her chanting. Even Zoe tries to help, pressing down on your abdomen in the hopes of slowing the bleeding as she joins Mallory in spellwork. It’s becoming more difficult to hold on as you become weaker, the two taking turns making you open your eyes again.

“Please, please, please,” Mallory begs any and all forces beyond her power that might be listening.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, the effort to produce sounds near herculean.

“Don’t apologize,” she says sternly through tears, earning the smallest of laughs from you.

“Yes, ma’am.” Your hands shake as you feel around for Mallory’s, and you weakly squeeze when you find them. “I love you, Mal. I’m so happy I got to see you again.”

“Stop saying goodbye. I’m going to bring you back, this isn’t goodbye.”

For now, though, it is, and you both know it. When your eyes close this time, they don’t open again, and you feel yourself being dragged down, down, down, away from consciousness and life itself.

With your last remaining strength, you become introspective. You have so many regrets, so many words that you’re going to leave unsaid. You wish you had gotten the chance to actually complete the spell and go back in time, sure that you would have been able to change Michael’s mind. You want to thank Queenie and Zoe and Coco and Marie for their help, for believing that you can help fix the mess the world has become. You wish you could—

•••

Michael has had enough of witches on this Earth, he thinks as he blows Queenie’s head clean off her shoulders after coming back to life. She had been distracted by a body falling from two floors up—whose body it was remained a mystery that Michael didn’t care to solve—providing Michael the element of surprise. Even if she were still prepared, it wouldn’t have mattered. He’s too powerful for anything to stop him now.

Maybe he was naive to believe that a simple nuclear bomb or two could kill them. No, he was definitely naive. After all, Mallory knew that the world would be ending, and soon. That was more than enough time for her to gather her chosen forces and figure out a way to survive. He knows now that his path, the one that Satan had created before he had even created Michael, was always meant to lead to this. In order to truly inherit this new world and rule Hell on Earth, he must eradicate the remaining witches with his own hands.

But what to do with you? You’ve chosen your side for this battle, and it’s not his. He nervously hopes that you’re simply mad at him after how your last conversation devolved into a fight, that Mallory reached you at a vulnerable time and used that to her advantage to recruit you. Once he defeats the witches, you’ll come back to him and he’ll concede that he was perhaps wrong to bring up the idea of having a child at such an intimate moment. Still, seeing you standing in solidarity with the witches hurt, which is likely what the Supreme was planning.

When Michael makes it up the stairs, the reanimated voodoo queen blocks the hallway that he knows you and the witches have gone down. Grabbing a pouch off of her belt, she pours a powder into her hand and spreads it in a line in front of her with a chant.

“You shall not pass,” Marie declares with a smirk, wiping her hands of the powder. Michael juts his hand forward, prepared to rip her heart out of her chest, but an invisible barrier stops him. “You’re dealing with the HBIC now.”

He smiles ruefully. “Clever,” he admits. “Normally, that would work.”

He’s about to show that voodoo magic is no match for him anymore when his blood runs cold and his heart drops. At that same moment, he becomes aware of sobbing coming from far behind Marie. Though Michael’s never felt anything like this before, he can feel the certainty of what it means down to his very core: something’s happened. Specifically, something’s happened to you.

“Let me through,” he demands. Marie falters, taken aback at the fear in his eyes. “Marie Laveau, if you value your second chance at life you’ll let me through.”

She recovers from her hesitation with a haughty laugh. “Nice try.”

Michael makes quick work of her with a simple snap of his fingers, snapping her neck and sending her right back to the Underworld. He’s just about to clear the barrier and figure out just what is going on when he feels a presence behind him. Rolling his eyes, he turns around to face this distraction as well and comes face to face with Coco St. Pierre Vanderbilt, who was with you when he was shot. Surely she must know something about what’s going on.

“What’s happened?” Michael asks. The knife that Coco was prepared to stab him with goes limp in her wrist, and she gapes at him. “Where’s Y/n?”

“She was…Brock…” She weakly mimes a stabbing motion.

“No.” He feels sick at the mere implication. “No!”

Coco now the least of his worries, he runs down the hallway, the whole time hoping that it’s a mistake, that Coco misinterpreted what she saw, that the cold emptiness now residing in his chest is simply a fluke. The sobs that become more clear as he nears the entryway, however, don’t do much to reassure him.

“Mallory!” Michael gasps.

The Supreme is on the floor with you in her lap, and for a moment, Michael can delude himself into thinking that you’re okay. The excessive amount of blood on the floor—your blood—and the unnaturally limp way that your hand is lying force him to face the obvious. Michael’s knees give out, and he falls to the floor harshly.

Mallory looks up at him, forgetting that they’re meant to be enemies right now. “She got stabbed, and—” a sob rips from her chest, “my healing spells aren’t working. And neither is Vitalum Vitalis. It should be working, Michael, I’m the fucking Supreme.”

“Okay. Um, let me…” Michael’s brain is fighting a war between shutting down from the agony of this situation and kicking into overdrive to figure out how to get you back. After a moment, he thinks he might have an idea. He tries to pull you out of Mallory’s arms and into his own, but she refuses to loosen her hold on you. “Mallory, I need to hold her.”

While he does need to be able to touch you for the spell, he’s not really asking for that purpose. He feels that he might soon lose his grasp on sanity if he can’t hold your body. No, he needs you as close to him as possible, to try and capture the warmth of your body so that he might remind himself that you’ve only just left, that he can still get you back. Begrudgingly, Mallory allows him to hold you, but she still keeps one of your hands in hers.

He’d like to say that it looks like you’re sleeping, comforting himself with the platitude most mourners claim upon seeing a body. He’d be lying, though, because he knows what you look like when you’re sleeping. The way that your face scrunches at the smallest sensation, how your eyes move under their lids and your mouth forms silent words when you’re dreaming particularly deeply, the intermittent light snoring that you swear you don’t do. If you were simply sleeping, he’d play the prince to your Sleeping Beauty and wake you with a kiss, revealing your amused smile and your fond gaze.

Now, there’s none of that. You’ve been dead for mere minutes, but already the signs of death are here. Your face is as slack as all of your muscles now are, making your cheekbones more prominent and your mouth hinge slightly open. A sallowness has started to take over your skin, and he finds himself tracing the apples of your cheeks in a futile attempt to coax blood back to the surface. He even swears that he can feel your body growing colder, just like he feared.

It takes Michael some time to remember what he’s meant to be doing. All of this grief and pain will hopefully be for nothing, so long as he can hold himself together for a little bit longer. He takes a deep breath, hesitating for a moment before dropping his forehead against yours. Tears are threatening to fall, and when he closes his eyes to try and hold them back, it only hastens their arrival. They roll, hot and thick, off of his face and onto yours, and he wipes them off with a silent apology.

Finally, Michael slips into a dissociation as he begins to walk between the realms of living and dead. He’s done this more than a few times now for varying reasons, becoming pretty adept at finding a soul and bringing it back to the living plane. The hardest part by far is always calming his mind enough to be able to attempt this in the first place; the fact that he’s been able to achieve it in this circumstance is a small miracle.

Now that he’s in the so-called in-between, he begins his search. Every single soul has a signature to it, so as long as he knows who he’s looking for, he usually finds the rest of this process to be pretty straightforward. Since your soul is so near and dear to him, he’s expecting this to take a couple of minutes at most.

A minute passes, then another, as he tries to track your soul down. Michael begins to grow concerned; considering you just died, he shouldn’t be having to search this hard. There’s a complete lack of you anywhere, and he begins to shake as he’s faced with the increasingly likely potential that your soul is gone. But how? Why? With a chilling clarity, he knows exactly what’s happened.

His father has become displeased. Whether he’s had enough of your and Michael’s collective disobedience over the years—Satan holds a grudge like no other, after all—or your declaration that you would never bear Michael’s child or be the perfect wife that Satan had planned for you to be. He’s had enough, and now, he’s taken this opportunity to make good on the threats he first warned Michael about during the poison apple saga. He’s made sure that you’re out of the picture for good. If Michael knows Satan, he’s probably already picked out some girl back at the Sanctuary to be wife number two, and this time, she would be the most devout, demure Satanist who would never even think of going against Satan’s will.

But Michael doesn’t want another wife. No, what he wants is to lay here on the floor and die right along with you, following you into whatever afterlife you’ve found yourself in in the hopes that he can continue to love you there. How can he ever be expected to love another person that’s not you? What kind of a life is there for him to live if you’re not here to share in it?

“Is everything okay?” Mallory asks, reminding him that there’s another person in this room, one who’s going to feel her own devastation at this news.

“I can’t find her. My father…” He chokes on his own words, unable to actually say the fate that’s befallen you. Instead, he can only cry.

Mallory picks up on the context clues, and her face drops. “So that’s it? She’s gone?”

The nod Michael gives her is the most painful movement of his life. When Mallory collapses, he also forgets the pretense of enemies and allows her to fall against him. It’s mainly for his own benefit—were he not using Mallory for support, he would be in a heap on top of you.

They remain without words for a while. Distantly, he’s aware of Zoe talking to Coco down that damned hall, the two wondering what to do now. He hopes that they come up with an answer, because he has no clue. In his opinion, there’s nowhere else to go from here. Though he may not have physically died, his life has ended along with yours in this room.

“Were you telling the truth?” Michael asks finally, making Mallory look up. “About Jeff and Mutt?”

He almost doesn’t want to know, but before he can change his mind, she nods. “All they cared about were themselves. They were fed up with minor inconveniences—having to wait for coffee, traffic woes—and wanted to ‘wipe the slate clean.’ They thought that they could reshape the world to how they wanted, and they used a vulnerable Antichrist to do so. Ms. Mead changed her tune from magic to fire and blood because Jeff and Mutt were feeding her the commands.”

He so badly wants her to be lying, but even if he couldn’t sense her truthfulness, he has his own memories to rely on. How suddenly Ms. Mead suggested that world destruction was preferred to world domination (and that the two cokehead idiots would be the guys to talk to about that) had always seemed a little odd to him, but he simply went along with it, believing Ms. Mead to still be his trusted advisor. This revelation simply makes Michael cry harder until he’s almost matching Mallory’s earlier sobs. She puts her free hand on his shoulder in comfort. Though he appreciates the gesture, nothing can bring him comfort.

All of this pain and death and destruction has been for naught. Michael spent years chasing his father’s approval and doing terrible things, things that made him so sick to think about that he forced himself to compartmentalize them in order to not drown in his shame. He’s shirked friends, love, and basic morals, only to find out that his father didn’t even care if the world ended this way. No, all Satan wanted was power and sin, which he got in spades these past eighteen months.

“How were you going to stop me?” he asks.

Mallory hesitates. “We…we were going to go back in time. There’s a spell that I found when searching through the coven’s grimoires to help with your Cordelia issue. I practiced it a few times before the bombs dropped, trying to figure out the right way to do it. Y/n was going to be both your personal tie and the one convincing you to stop the apocalypse. She had a time in place where she thought that you would be most willing to listen, to change your mind.”

It’s a smart plan, and it probably would have worked. After all, you likely know (knew, he’s reminded harshly) him better than he knows himself. As he thinks about the what-ifs, Michael realizes that this doesn’t have to be something that never happens.

“So, if you and I were to go back in time together, then we could change all of this?” Michael asks.

Mallory gapes at him. “You’re willing to give all this up?”

“What, this empty, decimated kingdom that I don’t even want?”

In the eighteen months since the apocalypse, Michael had found that he was not suited for being a ruler—he didn’t like the pomp and circumstance, nor did he like people fawning over him. Still, he pretended to be the cold, uncaring king of this “New World,” because he thought that was what Satan wanted, that he was fulfilling the destiny that he was born to.

Now, there’s nothing left to fight for. The world didn’t even need to be ended, let alone in this way. He’s been nothing but a pawn to people his whole life—the Satanists, the warlocks, the stupid fucks that ran Kineros, even Satan himself. He’s done. Done with this stupid, useless path he’s taken, done with hurting everything and everyone, and done with bowing to the whims of anybody.

After all, what has he got to show for any of this? He’s been a good little soldier, doing unspeakably horrific acts and acting like he wasn’t affected, like he wasn’t the Michael that he was before the apocalypse. How did Satan reward him? By ensuring that he would never get back the one person in his life that he has ever truly loved, and who had ever truly loved him.

“I can’t—I can’t live a life without Y/n. There is nothing without her. What do I need to do to help you?”

“Promise me,” she says. “Promise me that you will not use this second chance to end the world once again.”

“I just found out I ended the world for no reason, Mallory. A world that I was slowly coming to love, before Cordelia informed me that I needed to speed up the apocalypse plans I had been led to believe were created by my father. Before I was upset by people trying to convince me that blowing everything up was a bad idea.” Because of course, Satan would take credit for those plans if it meant that he would be closer to getting the complete chaos it would create. “Why would I try to end it again?”

Mallory searches his face for a moment before nodding. “I believe you.”

She’s known him for long enough now to know his tells, and she sees none of them. Right now, he’s too much of a wreck to even consider trying to lie, not that he was planning on it.

Mallory slowly stands, but not before kissing the back of your hand and laying it gently on your chest. “Come on.”

“I’m sorry,” Michael whispers to you, kissing your forehead. “I’m so, so sorry. I’m going to make this right.”

It takes strength he didn’t know he possessed to lay you down and let go of your body. Even as he walks away, going against every instinct and leaving you on the floor, he can’t take his eyes off of you.

Mallory climbs into the large washtub in the corner of the room, flicking her wrist and filling it with water. Michael follows her in, ignoring the uncomfortable sensation of sitting in wet clothes.

“Think of a time that you believe it will be easiest to completely stop the apocalypse before it goes too far,” she instructs.

There are many times in the past two years that Michael can see as a good time to stop the apocalypse. First, he’s tempted to go back to the beginning of this mess, when the witches killed Ms. Mead. Plans for the end of the world hadn’t even been drawn up yet, and he would have the added benefit of having Ms. Mead back. Plus, you wouldn’t have gone through the trauma of being kidnapped and forced to be the Antichrist’s bride.

It’s incredibly selfish, but the more Michael thinks about that avenue, the less he wants to take it. While it’s unfortunate how you came to know each other, he wouldn’t trade the way that you and he fell in love with each other for anything. But on the practical side, he wouldn’t have the influence that he has over important people and organizations were he to go back that far, and he needs that if he’s going to have enough power to keep the world from ending altogether. That’s off the table, then.

He wishes that you had told Mallory of your idea before being fatally wounded, because he probably would have agreed with your assessment. If it was any time after you moved in with him, he was already so in love with you that he could easily be swayed. What makes the most sense?

Finally, Michael has it. The time where he can be most effective at changing the fate of the world and ensuring there will not be an apocalypse by his hand, can remain powerful enough to not be usurped as Antichrist (for he’s sure that Satan will be very displeased by the change of plans if he finds out about Michael changing fate), and can still have you.

He opens his eyes and nods. “I have it.”

“Okay,” Mallory says with a hopeful smile. “Focus on that as hard as you can, place us both there.”

It’s all he can think about now, but he does as she says and recreates that time in his head. The sights, the sounds, the smells. How your hand felt in his, and the brightness of your smile. The possibilities that, at that time, seemed endless. Mallory holds her hands out and Michael takes them, feeling their magic bouncing off of each other like sparks from two exposed wires.

“Balneum infinitum. Dona salui conductus.” Mallory repeats the chant two more times, the water bubbling around them furiously and turning darker with each word.

Michael knows even without Mallory’s instruction that he’s needed to say the last part of the spell, and what that last part is. Just before they submerge themselves under the water, their voices join together to cast the most important spell of their lives.

“Tempus Infinituum.”

•••

Endnotes: Wow. I thought this would be a particularly tough chapter to write, but as I got going, the story flowed easily. I think because I've had this scene stuck in my head for so long! My FBI agent is definitely concerned by how thoroughly I read those "what happens to a body after a person dies" articles.

ALSO the Jeff and Mutt thing is canon!

Anyways, I'm gonna go watch some cute animal videos to feel better. Take care of yourselves, alright?

@ajokeformur-ray @iamavailablesstuff @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @nsainmoonchild @redroses07

@xo-angel-ox @littleangel4996 @iamlivingforturner @thatonehumanbeing05

@codycrazy @love-on-the-murder-scene

#michael langdon #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon x reader #american horror story #ahs imagine #american horror story imagine #michael langdon imagines #mad love musings

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ajokeformur-ray · 20 days ago

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I'm missing Michael Langdon so so bad it's eating at me lmao

😭😣

You and I both 😭

Michael would be tilting his head, his brow slightly furrowed in the middle. Trying to work you out, trying to figure out if what he's sensing is real. If you're... Actually... Missing him???

He finds the concept a bit strange, he's right in front of you.

And yet... He understands it, too. How often did he stand in the room where his dear grandmother died, missing her with every fibre of his being, knowing she had taken herself somewhere he couldn't follow?

Michael understands.

He doesn't say much of anything, he only resolves to stay as close to you as he's able to, whether that's because of the Hawthorn Academy or because of the cult he got adopted into or because of Ms. Mead or because of the Outpost.... Michael stays with you as much as he can.

He might say something like, "look at you, missing me," with that sassy confidence he has in the Outpost, his arms wrap around your middle and Michael hugs you into him, his chin resting on your shoulder. His sass melts away almost immediately and gives way to tenderness so devastating only the Antichrist could achieve it, "as if I'm not right here"

I miss him so much 😭💔

#michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #ahs #ahs apocalypse

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chaos-is-beautifvl · 2 years ago

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it’s been well over a year since i posted my writing in the ahs fandom. and, after a bit of searching the tags, i realized that the activity for michael langdon (in particular) has drastically decreased since i was last here

that being said, i have a couple stories that i never got around to finishing, as well as two series i left on hiatus. i, for sure, want to finish the series but let me know which one-shots you’re interested in. i would prefer to create stories that others are going to read and not just me

p.s. check out my other writing here and here (primarily michael langdon but also xavier plympton, duncan shepherd, and jim mason)

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬:

𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐧:

✿ class reunions are overrated || outpost!michael

you think class reunions are overrated but a series of events following a certain blonde friend change your mind

✿ it’s called magic, darling || dilf!michael x teacher!reader

all the teachers have a crush on the hot dad with the adorable daughter but he only has his eyes set on one

✿ you’re not my friend

you and michael have to work together on a new project. michael is used to everyone falling at his feet, but he’s in for a rude awakening you could give zero fucks || inspired by therefore i am - billie eilish

✿ how did we get here?

you watch as michael changes into someone he’s not, leaving you questioning your relationship || inspired by decode - paramore

𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬:

✿ no body, no crime feat. detective!duncan shepherd || preview here

the good detective comes to you with a mystery he thinks he’s solved, only to discover just how wrong he is || inspired by no body, no crime - taylor swift

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬:

✿ a helping hand || fem!reader, set in the outpost

your meeting with langdon takes an awry turn when he brings up something from your past

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5

✿ 1984 x Coven x Apocalypse crossover || fem!reader, implied!poc

the year is 1984, you’re on the road with your cousin and everything seems to be going well. however, it all starts going to shit as soon as you set foot in that camp

chapter 1: the start of a wonderful summer | chapter 2: what donkey? | chapter 3: cece and freddy

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

#ahs x reader #michael langdon x reader #duncan sheperd x reader #michael langdon fanfiction #xavier plympton x reader #american horror story x reader #cody fern x reader #ahs fanfic #ahs fic

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littlelokilover · 2 years ago

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We should all have a rewatch of the Outpost!Michael episodes so we can reignite the passion!

I have had lots of dreams about different Cody characters recently. And they vary quite a bit in how the characters behave and present themselves.

Except for Michael. For some reason it's always Outpost!Michael, behaving like a possessive stalker. I don't know why, there's so much to him, but apparently that's what my subconscious mind wants. 😏

#michael langdon #outpost michael #ahs apocalypse #my little meow meow

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langdonss · 10 months ago

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Me waiting in the outpost for my interview with Michael Langdon

#michael langdon #ahs apocolaypse #american horror story #cody fern

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eldritchlibertine · 1 year ago

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Michael Langdon x Nameless FMC Words: 5,462

The apocalypse has come and gone, and 18 months have passed at Outpost 3. Life is a monotonous, bleak expanse of tedium - until the arrival of Michael Langdon shakes the very foundations of her existence and she realizes how little control of she has over her own life.

They were all gathered in the library, waiting for an ‘announcement’ from Ms. Venable. And she might have been imagining it, but the air in this horrible, underground bunker felt even more still and oppressive than usual.

Maybe it was the silence.

While they would usually spend their evenings in the library, spending time before and after dinner reminiscing about the times when the world wasn’t completely fucked, tonight was different.

Tonight, there was a stranger in Venable’s office and live snakes had crawled out of their dinner bowls, despite being definitely not alive just moments before. No. Tonight was very different.

Even the radio was silent. Maureen McGovern had been singing about a morning after ceaselessly for the last 18 months. She thought back bitterly to those happier times, when they thought the song was a good omen - a sign that perhaps their stint in this terrible purgatory would soon come to an end. But no, as time had dragged on without change, the stupid song had morphed into nothing more than a mocking reminder of their stagnation.

So this silence should have felt like a blessing - but it didn’t. It felt like a threat.

It loomed over them like a black cloud, heavy with foreboding. The only sounds that punctured the quiet were the soft rustles of clothing as the others shifted uncomfortably, each noise amplified in the unusual stillness that had taken hold.

Finally, Venable arrived, shadowed as always by Ms. Mead, her faithful specter. The rhythmic tap of her cane interrupted the horrible silence, but she didn’t speak once she’d reached her position in front of the fireplace - she just watched them - waiting. The atmosphere of the room seemed to pull taut, like a violin string about to snap. Now, no one was fidgeting. It didn’t even seem like anyone was breathing. Then, cutting through the suspense like a knife, the sound of deliberate footsteps echoed from the passage outside.

This was obviously who Venable was waiting for; the mysterious visitor that had arrived the day before.

He entered with an unhurried gait, footsteps echoing methodically in the oppressive silence that followed him like a shroud as he took Venable’s place in front of the fire.

Her breath caught in her throat. Maybe it was because his was the first new face she’d seen in what felt like an eternity, but she found her mouth going dry at the sight of him. There was something ethereal about him - captivating, but unsettling. Perfection in the flesh.

His golden hair framed his face like the halo of a fallen angel, and his eyes seemed to flicker with shadows and flames. She found herself wanting to reach out and touch him.

"Allow me to introduce myself," his voice cut through the thick tension in the room, breaking her from her reverie. "My name is Langdon, and I represent The Cooperative." He spoke with a theatrical flourish, and his lips curled into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes; a facade of warmth unable to melt the ice there.

Her mouth was dry again; this time, a primal instinct warning of danger. He exuded power and menace and his voice carried the intangible authority of someone who knows too much, who has seen things no one else has, and who wields that knowledge like a weapon.

He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped behind his back, savoring the moment. “I won’t sugarcoat the situation,” he says, the ghost of a smile hovering around the corner of his lips. “Humanity is on the brink of failure. The three other compounds have been overrun and destroyed.”

Timothy voiced the question that was on all of their minds. “What happened to the people inside?”

"Massacred," Langdon drawled, drawing out the syllables. They rolled off his tongue like he enjoyed the taste of them, and she couldn't help but feel there was a sort of relish behind his words. Her gaze flickered up to meet his, and for a moment she saw it—the glint in his eye that said he was enjoying telling them this. Her heart fluttered, and she told herself it was from fear.

"The same fate that will befall almost all of you. But," he continued with a casualness that belied the significance of his message, "there is a place beyond the reach of this devastation. The Sanctuary."

A flicker of something indefinable sparked in his eyes as he leaned forward, the dim light catching his gaze and making it dance with something indefinable and sinister.

“The Sanctuary is unique. It has certain security measures that will prevent overrun.”

The next questions he fielded with a bland, “that’s classified,” before he said, “All that matters is that the sanctuary will survive, so the people populating it will survive, so humanity will survive.”

"The Cooperative has developed a particular and rigorous questioning technique we like to call Cooperating" he announced, the words dropping like weights into the silence of the room. "I will then use the information gained to find those who are—how shall I put it?—worthy and fit to join us."

The air seemed to thicken around her, charged with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation. She watched as his lips curled into what could have been a smile, though there was nothing warm about it.

"If you belong," he continued, his tone almost teasing, seeming to relish the power he held over them, "you'll be safe within the Sanctuary's embrace."

He seemed to take a sick pleasure in their uncertainty, in the hope he dangled before them like a lifeline that might just as easily turn into a noose.

The air seemed to grow colder, denser, as if every word from Langdon's lips added weight to the already suffocating atmosphere and she questioned silently whether survival was worth enduring more of this.

Her thoughts must have been louder than she realized, because suddenly, Michael's gaze captured hers. His eyes - icy, sharp and discerning - held her own for a moment and a shiver ran down her spine as she wondered whether he could feel her inner turmoil. But just as quickly as their eyes met, his attention swept past her, continuing his survey of the room.

She was so absorbed in her own thoughts that she didn’t even hear Coco’s objection, but she felt the palpable tension settle over the room, as thick as the shadows that played across Michael's face. His eyes fixed on Coco with a disquieting calm.

“You don’t have to sit for questioning,” he said, each word dropping like a stone into the silence that followed Coco's outburst. Coco, her earlier confidence now shattered, shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze.

"What happens if we choose not to?" Andre asked, his voice scraping against the stillness of the room.

The question hung between them and Langdon’s lips curved with the hint of a smile; one that spoke of malice - a smile that knew too much, that held secrets and the power to unravel them at will.

"Then you stay here and die," he said, that cold smile leaking into his voice.

The declaration sliced through the tension like blade and the finality in his tone made it clear that this was not an idle threat.

Without breaking eye contact, his hand delved into the pocket of his coat and emerged with a small glass bottle filled with white pills. The rattle of them as he held the vial was unnervingly loud in the quiet room.

“But all is not lost,” he said. “If the worst should happen and feral cannibals come knocking, down one of these." His eyes seemed to glitter as he continued. "And one minute later, you fall asleep and never wake up."

The offer dangled before them, an alluring escape from the waking nightmare they found themselves trapped within. She could feel the pull of the promise—peaceful oblivion, an end to the fear and uncertainty that had burrowed deep into her bones. Her mind toyed with the idea, desperate for reprieve, Maybe she could skip the interview process altogether and just ask him for one of those pills. Anything had to be better than this.

Around her, the silence swelled, heavy with the unspoken thoughts of her companions, each person wrestling with their own demons, their own temptations. To her, the pills were a siren call, a way out that was both terrifying and tender in its cruelty. To the others, they seemed to be a threat - a warning.

Again, Michael’s eyes seemed to catch hers as her thoughts drifted to the darkness. For a fleeting moment, she felt exposed, vulnerable as if he had peeled back the layers of her resolve to glimpse at the turmoil swirling within. His eyes were sharp, piercing, and she couldn't shake off the sensation that he was sifting through her thoughts and was ill-pleased with what he found there.

"Once again," he said, his voice low and resonant, "I look forward to meeting each and every one of you." The words slithered through the room, wrapping around her like a shroud. His words were a threat, thinly veiled as a courtesy, and they hung in the air, ominous and foreboding.

He swept out of the room then, leaving them all reeling. At least Coco waited until Venable and Mead had also departed before she lay into Gallant for offering to take the first interview. Things snowballed from there, and she slipped out quietly while everyone continued to bicker, her presence dissolving into the shadows as if she had never been there at all.

—

She awoke groggily the next morning, dreading the idea of having to face another day in this interminable limbo. Venable’s rule echoed in her mind—no idle lounging in bedrooms during the ‘daylight�� hours. She scoffed. They hadn’t seen daylight in nearly two years.

The hallways were silent as she made her way through them towards the library - the heart of their little hell and the only place they could really spend their time when they weren’t just wandering the halls like ghosts as she sometimes did when she couldn’t bear another moment of banal chatter or Maureen McGovern. A wry smile touched her lips as she thought of Jane Austen's characters in their finery, forever seeking purposeful activity. "Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room," she whispered to herself, channeling Miss Bingley's persuasion to break the monotony of inactivity.

Stepping into the library, she was greeted by the sight of the others already gathered, their nervous energy palpable even in their quiet chatter. She shifted from foot to foot, her arms crossed over her chest in a subconscious effort to ward off the discomfort that seeped into her bones. She tried to focus on the lyrics floating through the air, words about hope and moving on, but they felt hollow, an echo of optimism that seemed out of reach.

She couldn’t engage with anyone, though Coco tried to pull her into a conversation. At some point, Gallant drifted in, looking pale and shaken, but she couldn’t even focus on that. The tension coiled tighter within her, a physical presence that made her heart race and her stomach churn. It was like the very air was laden with trepidation, and with each inhale, she drew more of it inside herself.

Finally, the oppressive atmosphere became too much to bear and she had to escape. With a polite smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, she murmured an excuse about needing a moment alone.

The narrow passage was dim, the only light filtering in from the sconces that hung on the dark walls. When they built this horrible bunker underground, they probably should have used some brighter colors so that living there wouldn’t feel so much like living inside a tomb. And before this, it had been a school - she pitied the students who had to live and learn here.

She walked swiftly, with no particular destination in mind, her thoughts a tangled mess.

Without warning, her forward motion was abruptly halted and a firm grip encircled her upper arms, steadying her as she collided with a solid chest.

"Careful," Langdon's deep voice rumbled, resonating through the close quarters of the hallway.

She looked up, her breath catching at the intensity of his icy blue eyes. The contact sent a jolt of warmth flooding her cheeks, her skin tingling where his hands made contact. His touch was surprisingly gentle for a man who seemed to be the living, breathing embodiment of menace, and yet it did little to ease the tight coil of anxiety in her stomach.

"I was just coming to find you," he said, his voice low and even. There was something in his gaze that made her heart race.

Nervous energy buzzed through her, and she couldn't help but take a half-step back as he released her, though the echo of his touch lingered like a phantom sensation. The air around him seemed to thrum with intensity, and she swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat.

As she regained her balance, she thought back to Gallant as he’d stumbled back into the library - his face a picture of unease, his shaky hands as he poured himself a drink.

Now, standing before Langdon, poised for her own interview, apparently, she understood why.

And as she stood caught in his unwavering stare, she could only nod her acquiescence, motioning for him to lead the way.

The click of their footsteps was the only sound as they made their way through the dimly lit corridor and she fought the urge to turn and run. Something inside her was screaming.

A fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the room that played on the walls and as Langdon closed the doors behind them, she felt like she was stepping into another world - one that was intimate and somehow more daunting because of it.

He gestured for her to take a seat in one of the two armchairs positioned before the fireplace, then settled into the other without a word. The silence stretched between them, heavy and laden with an unspoken tension. She found herself acutely aware of the subtle sounds—the soft crackle of the fire, her own breath as it hitched in her throat.

Langdon’s eyes remained fixed on her and she felt exposed—like a specimen pinned under glass. There was something about being in his presence that magnified her every flaw, turned each fidget into a scream of nervousness. She crossed her legs, then uncrossed them, the leather of the chair creaking softly under her shifting weight.

She caught herself running her finger along the armrest, tracing patterns in the soft leather - anything to avoid meeting his gaze. But it was futile; his stare was almost palpable, a force that commanded attention even when she sought desperately to escape it. Her hands began to tremble slightly, betraying her composure, and she clasped them tightly in her lap in an effort to still them.

The twitching of her foot, a slight bounce of her knee; they became her body’s metronome of anxiety, counting down the moments

She could practically hear the snap as her voice broke the silence - like a stone shattering glass. "I don’t even know why I’m here," she blurted. Langdon remained as impassive as the walls, his gaze fixed on her with unsettling intensity. Not a single muscle moved in his face, no twitch, no flicker of emotion. It was as if he had expected her outburst, as if he had scripted this moment in his mind and was now watching it play out exactly as he planned.

"I brought you here," he said simply, the words falling from his lips with an unnerving calmness.

She faltered.

“I meant here, at the Outpost. Not here in your office. I don’t know why I’m here.” She felt the weight of his eyes, holding her in place more firmly than any physical restraint ever could. “I’m not like the others,” she said, her voice taking on a shrill edge.

“I didn’t pay my way in like Coco and Evie. I didn’t luck my way in like Gallant. I’m not even here because of something special in my blood, like Timothy and Emily. I don’t belong here.” The last part was almost a shout - a confession that kept bottled up these last long months. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t fit in.

Her breathing was ragged, and her heart raced in her chest. She felt the weight of her confession, finally acknowledging the confusion that had plagued her since her arrival.

His stillness was a stark contrast to the storm raging within her. There was something in his look that disarmed her, leaving her defenseless and exposed. "I told you - I brought you here."

Her breath caught, her mind struggling to parse his meaning, her thoughts ensnared by the gravity of what he was saying.

Suddenly, the fire was no longer warming the room, and she felt a chill seep into her bones as she wrapped her arms around herself, a futile attempt at comfort in the face of his unsettling composure and his wild claim.

Distantly, she noticed the firelight playing over his features, making him appear both present and distant, a spectral figure in a world that was becoming more surreal by the second.

"What do you mean," she finally asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

He leaned forward then, the motion deliberate - predatory even. "What’s unclear to you?" he asked, his eyes never leaving hers, a smile at the edges of his mouth.

Her heart continued to hammer against her ribcage, a caged bird frantic for escape from the intensity of his scrutiny - the gravity of this exchange. Her eyes darted to the door for a fleeting moment before she anchored herself back in the room, back to him.

"Wh-what do you mean you brought me here? Why?" The words tumbled out of her like a handful of coins slipping carelessly through the fingers of a clumsy child, laced with a confusion that was quickly morphing into alarm. She could feel a flush creeping up her neck, painting her skin with visible unease.

He remained still, a statue carved from darkness, his gaze locked onto hers with unnerving precision. "I watched you," he said, each word measured and deliberate, "before the world burned. I liked what I saw." His voice was low, dark and resonant, carrying with it an undeniable assertion of ownership.

She felt her breath hitch, his words settling over her like a funeral shroud.

"I decided that I wanted you," he continued, the faintest trace of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, "and I always get what I want." There was a finality in his tone that frightened her - and sent a thrill through a deeper part of her; one that she wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

In that moment, it was as if she could feel the unseen threads he'd woven around her life, pulling her into an orbit she never would have chosen, and she swallowed hard, trying to steady herself against the dawning realization.

The color rose in her cheeks as his gaze held hers, a playful glint dancing in his eyes. Every nerve ending seemed to spark to life under the weight of his attention, leaving her tongue-tied and adrift in a sea of confusion.

He leaned back slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. The soft sound of his chuckle sliced through the tension, mocking her inner turmoil.

It was a sound that stirred something within her, a mixture of irritation and another inexplicable thrill.

Gathering the remnants of her composure, she squared her shoulders, attempting to project an assurance she was far from feeling. "And what if I don't want you?" The words came out steadier than she expected, even as her heart continued to beat a wardrum in her chest.

The laughter spilled from him again, the silky sound wrapping around her like velvet chains.

"But you do," he said, his confidence seemingly unshaken.

She clenched her fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms as if the pain could anchor her to her defiance. He was right - of course she was attracted to him - he was beautiful and new and she hadn’t been touched in years. She refused to acknowledge that secret, dark part of herself that thrilled at the thought of the power he must wield to have orchestrated her being here.

No. These last 18 months had been a horror - a slow march towards death, fraught with anxiety and fear. Just last night, she’d very seriously considered asking him for one of those little pills, so that she could finally escape this place.

While she couldn’t deny that she was attracted to him, wanted him, she'd be damned if she let him see the full extent of his effect on her.

Swallowing the knot of frustration in her throat, she straightened her spine and met his piercing gaze head-on. His smug assurance was a challenge she refused to lose. He didn’t have to know that behind the façade of indifference, she was like a sapling in a hurricane, bending under the force of his presence.

Her breath hitched again, a silent cue to the tempest brewing within her. With a swift surge of her will, she rose from the cushioned chair and pivoted on the balls of her feet, every muscle tensed for retreat.

But he was a shadow, a whisper of movement more felt than seen. His hand encircled her wrist with the sureness of a man accustomed to getting his way, his touch firm yet devoid of the malice she half-expected. The warmth of his fingers shocked her and her lips parted with a silent gasp.

"Let me go," she managed, her voice a whisper, fighting against the feelings his proximity stirred. Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingertips.

His fingers uncurled from her wrist, only to trace a path upward, reaching the side of her face with a tenderness that belied his assertive words. "No, I don't think I will," he murmured, his voice a low thrum that resonated in the charged air between them.

The brush of his thumb against her cheek was maddeningly soft. It was a caress meant to soothe, to seduce, and she hated the heat that blossomed beneath her skin in response.

"Come now,” he said, “it's silly to fight this. I know you want me." The arrogance in his words sparked a fire behind her eyes, even as an unwanted shiver trailed down her spine.

She did want him - how could she not - and the honesty of that admission clawed at her pride. Her eyelids fluttered shut for a fraction of a second. To lie would be futile; the intensity of his gaze seemed to pierce through all her defenses, laying her soul bare.

A silent battle raged within her, a war between desire she felt and the fear and how suddenly that desire had come. Yet, in that moment, with his hand cupping her face and the world shrinking to the space where their breaths mingled, she knew that resistance was futile.

She didn’t even have to say anything. He already knew. All she could do was surrender to the warmth of his palm against her skin, fingers expertly weaving through the tresses at the base of her skull. His touch was a paradox—gentle yet commanding—as he pulled lightly, eliciting a shiver that ran down her spine and sent her eyelids fluttering.

"I should have saved you for last, but I didn't want to wait anymore," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the quiet space between them.

The admission hung in the air, charged with the electricity of anticipation and the gravity of his desire - a brief intermission in reality, as his lips claimed hers. The kiss was an unexpected storm, fierce and all-consuming. Her breath caught in her throat, heart still pounding. His hand, still entwined in her hair, anchored her to the moment, each gentle tug of the strands sending sparks of awareness cascading through her senses.

The world around them faded into a blur, leaving only the taste of him, the heat of him. With a fluid motion that spoke of a deep-seated need, he released her arm, his own sweeping around her waist possessively, pulling her snugly into him.

Her trembling fingers curled around his arms - though whether to pull him closer or push him away; she didn’t know.

The kiss was all-consuming - heated, and fierce and muddling her senses - but she came back to herself, just enough to yank herself backward, away from that burning kiss.

"I shouldn’t be doing this," she whispered to herself, the words slipping from her in a breathy murmur.

He only laughed again, his voice was low and smooth and laced with a dark humor. "Of course you should," he said. He leaned in, a mere whisper away, his hot breath fanning over her flushed cheeks. "I want you, you want me, why shouldn't we both take what we want?"

The weight of his gaze felt tangible.

"Chaos has won," he murmured, his voice a caress that sent shivers down her spine, her resolve splintering like sugar-glass.

He seemed to sense the shift within her, and without a word, released her with a deliberate slowness. One step back, then another, he retreated to the leather armchair. She watched him reclaim his seat, the shadows playing over his features, enhancing the sharpness of his jawline and the depth of his stare. A predator at rest, yet every inch of him poised, ready—a coiled spring waiting for the slightest provocation to leap forth.

Chaos has won.

The silence stretched between them for another moment and his gaze seemed to darken as he continued to watch her. “Take off your dress,” he said finally, relaxing into the chair as though he seemed to sense that all her resistance had finally fled.

But she wavered, muscles tense, heart finally ceasing its incessant hammering as it seemed to still completely.

“What?”

His voice, still low and even, seemed to fray at the edges as he repeated: “Take. Off. Your dress.”

Her dress, a relic of some bygone era, was a complex ensemble of layers and fastenings that required grace, patience and usually the assistance of a Gray to remove. But slowly, she began unfastening the tiny pearl buttons at the back, a task made more challenging by the limited reach of her own hands.

Finally, with the buttons undone, the heavy fabric whispered against the floor as she let the gown slide down her body to pool at her feet, leaving her in only a simple shift.

Her entire body was flushed, her limbs trembling and her breath coming in ragged gasps and she stood there, naked to his scrutiny despite the covering of her shift. “That too,” he murmured, his voice noticeably rougher.

She couldn’t look at him as she lifted the shift above her head, leaving her completely exposed, but she heard his low growl as she finally stood completely naked before him.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, almost too low for her to hear, and she flushed again, her heart beating a staccato rhythm against her ribcage.

Finally, she brought her eyes up to meet his, her whole body burning (with shame? With arousal?) and even in the dim light she could see that his pupils were blown wide, his whole body tense as though he was fighting for control. His eyes burned across her body as he took her in, his own breath seeming to come harder now.

“Come here,” he said, his voice low and commanding, holding out his hand to her.

Slowly, nervously, she padded her way over to him, his gaze never leaving hers. She slipped her hand into his, a shocked gasp leaving her as she was pulled suddenly into his lap, her legs straddling him.

Then, his hands were all over her - a soft touch at her sides, his fingers caressing the skin of her back; reverrant - as though he was trying to touch all of her all at once. Once again, his fingers tangled in the hair at the back of her head, his fingers threading through the strands, and she was lost in the sensation of him - the heat of him, seeping into her skin in all the places they were touching, his fingers leaving burning trails.

She didn’t resist when he pulled her in for a demanding kiss, giving back to him all the fervor he was pouring into her. His free hand drifted to her hip, and his fingers turned bruising as they pulled her further into him. His touch was hungry, possessive, and he moved from her lips to leaving a trail of desperate burning kisses along the column of her throat, eventually sinking his teeth into the soft flesh where her neck met her shoulder - almost hard enough to draw blood. The shock of it, the slight pain

She gasped in earnest then, grinding against him looking for friction, and he let out a guttural sound that was part growl and part moan, and his hand fisted into her hair, pulling her just far enough away for their eyes to lock. His glacial blue eyes were almost black with hunger, his pupils blown wide as his gaze bored into hers.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his fingers digging even harder into the flesh at her hip, the other hand still tangled in her hair. “Say it.”

Barely thinking, eyes half glazed with lust, she just nodded, “I’m yours,” she murmured breathlessly.

Suddenly, the world turned on its axis and her back met the warm leather where he had been sitting less than a moment ago. Suddenly, he was kneeling before her, his hands pressed against the armrests and she was completely caged in by his presence, unable to move or escape his grasp. Her body was trembling, every nerve on edge as she whispered, “What are you doing?”

“I told you,” he said, pressing a kiss to her collarbone, his mouth working its way slowly down her body, punctuating each word with a kiss, or a graze of his teeth - “You’re mine, and I take care of what belongs to me.”

In stark contrast to the gentleness of his kisses, he grabbed the backs of her thighs roughly, pulling her down till she was almost flat, spreading her apart.

She held her breath, the anticipation making her heart race as he leaned forward. His lips were soft and warm against her inner thigh, sending shivers of pleasure through her body.

His tongue traced a path from her knee to her hip, and she let out a gasp as his mouth finally reached her center and his tongue began to explore her. Her back arched and her hands scrabbled for purchase on the armrests, eventually coming to rest on his shoulders. He growled against her as her hand found his hair.

His touch was like fire, igniting every nerve in her body, and as he continued to lap at her.

With each flick of his tongue, she arched her back and dug her fingers into his scalp. He knew exactly how to drive her wild, taking his time and savoring every inch of her. His lips and tongue worked in tandem, leaving her mewling.

All too quickly, that familiar pressure began to build, heat pooling low in her belly, like she would come apart at any moment. Her fingers like a vice on his shoulder, the other hand in his hair, she ground against his face, ready to drop off that peak into the oblivion of ecstasy.

But before she could, he pulled away, and a strangled moan left her throat as she blinked at him in confusion. He sat back, mouth glistening and eyes dancing with sadistic glee as he watched her, flushed and panting.

He kissed her knee again, his hands stroking her body gently, fingers dancing across her breasts and along her thighs until her body relaxed - and then his mouth was on her again.

Again, he brought her to the edge, his skillful tongue and roving hands leaving her almost screaming and panting. Over and over again, he toyed with her, only to pull back at the last second. Her body was on fire, yearning for release.

She was frantic, bucking against him as he chuckled at her desperation, his warm breath tickling her skin.

"Go on, beg for it," he commanded in a low growl.

And she did.

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