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marchsfreakshow · 1 year ago

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Oh, The Sleeping Beauty {Dandy Mott}

SMUT.

To Dandy, you were a sleeping beauty. But he felt lonely in the night and needed you desperately.

Urm holy fuck I started writing this as a silly lil drabble but oops it became a whole fic. I hope you enjoy it anyway!

Warnings!; oral (F recieve), pnv, small bit of body worship, crud smut writing, bare bones plot.

18+! MINORS DNI - READ MY SFW WORKS

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

Fuck you were perfect. You were perfect when you slept. Your chest, your delicate face. Your hands, placed anywhere and everywhere. The soft little groans that escaped you as you adjusted your unconscious self in bed. It was perfect. Always perfect.

Dandy stayed up nearly all night watching you sleep. Gently tracing your face, the shape of your eyes, nose, mouth, where your spots were, where the 'imperfections' were. It was all his in his mind. His girl forever. Nothing would feel better to him than feeling if you were having a wet dream or not. His fingers flowed down to your legs and gently gripped one of your thighs. The light touches to your body made you stir a bit, and he almost jumped back when you shuffled around under the sheets. Your sleepy mumbles went unnoticed, and Dandy just laid there, watching and watching.

"Mine." He whispered, holding onto your waist, and refraining from taking his trousers off and jerking off to your beautiful, sleeping face. Your eyes fluttered open slightly, and your eyelids felt heavy. His face was right in front of yours, smiling. You smiled back, resting your hand on his arm that was on your waist. He never wanted you to waste your words.

But now you were awake, he couldn't touch you. Not without permission. He never wanted to hurt his princess by accident. All Dandy wanted was to reach under your nightgown and feel you. He wanted to know what dreams you had, how many of them were of him, and if he had to kill someone. "Dandy.?" You quietly asked. His attention snapped back to your face, after looking over your ridden up night-wear. Dangerous thoughts had come over him, and he wanted you to say 'Ravish me Dandy. Take all of me.' but he knew he had to wait.

Waiting hurt. Night after night, after you had gotten into bed, he sat himself in an empty room. He said fuck it and jerked off. In the darkness of a room, the thoughts of your moans and screams made him whimper and groan to himself. The grip you could have on his arms, and how you instinctively wrapped around him. Inside and out. He wanted to hear you scream out his name when he left bruises on your neck, legs, and torso. He was an addict. Addicted to your scent, and making your perfect skin damaged only by him.

Dandy's thoughts about you were distracted when you pulled him towards you in the bed and kissed him softly. Your soft kisses could make him cum right then and there. Gentle skin and lips pressed against his. Feeling you lose control of where your hands are moving. Your bodies were pressed together, the only thing stopping your contact was your pyjamas. Dandy ended the kiss quick, immediately moving to take your nightgown off. Your body in the darkness was like heaven. He knew your body so well and could touch every spot perfectly in the pitch black. You felt your thighs get risen up, as they were held in place on Dandy's shoulders.

The silence was shaken when Dandy pressed his tongue to your warm clit. It elicited a long moan from you, and Dandy couldn't help but buck his hips into the mattress, wanting friction on his cock. Every single move he took while eating you out, it drove him insane. Your taste, your warmth, your everything. The way your legs shook when you were close. As skilled as he was with his hands, he was even more skilled with his mouth. Fingers and tongue replaced each other when he moved from your clit to inside you. Your heavy eyelids fell and scrunched up when you screamed his name. Dandy revelled in hearing your name when he tasted your cum. It was like candy to him.

"You're perfect." The man whispered, staring into your soul from where his head lay. The warmth was felt on your face by your fingertips unconsciously. He was a god at making you blush and never stopped. Dandy never let go of your thighs, even after making you come. He gripped them, hard, and left small trails of kisses and bite marks on them. Even if they were on your inner thighs, he needed proof on your body that you were his.

The destruction of his precious doll had begun now.

But no matter what he did to you, Dandy still thought you were a perfect, precious, pretty toy for him. "Dandy..." You whispered, beckoning him in the night. Kisses were quickly exchanged again, you could taste yourself still on his tongue. Making you know how tasty you were to Dandy was important to him. He could have you for breakfast, lunch and dinner if it was possible. But it was your turn. Your prince was still wearing his pyjamas, and you felt exposed being the only naked one under the sheets. The buttons were almost broken when you both pulled and ripped Dandy's clothes off him. Even in the musk of the night, you could see him. You traced his torso whilst straddling him. Feeling him all the way down to his pelvis made you chuckle quietly.

Your pussy was sensitive still after being touched and tasted the way it was, and his dick just moving naturally against you always earned another moan from you. It must've been 3am, and lord you were about to wake up the whole house. Even if it was Gloria and Dora who were asleep. Dandy never failed to make you lose your mind, stretching you out always, filling you up to the brim, nearing tears every time he thrust himself upwards in you. That's exactly what he did. You find your own entrance and sink down, feeling yourself get full. "Fuck." You whispered, laying your hands on Dandy's shoulders. The way he almost always hit your cervix could have killed you every single time.

His rhythm started and was quickened whenever you let out a moan that was a little louder than the others. The man under you grinned when it happened and felt proud. He held your waist like a trophy as you bounced on him. His constant trophy was distracted when a gasp of pleasure bubbled in his throat. Slamming yourself down on him occasionally made him whimper and get closer to coming and warming you up. Soon enough you were screaming out for Dandy, leaving faint claw marks on his arms and shoulders.

Dandy came as fast as he blinked, but kept his hold on you, wanting you to stay sitting in him. Neither you felt like moving, but you did roll yourself off of Dandy slowly, immediately cuddling onto his side and catching your breath. It was still dark out, and you just felt like falling back asleep. And you did so very quickly. Your chest's normal rise and fall came back, while Dandy watched you in awe. When you fell asleep, Dandy attempted to get up out of the bed quietly so, as to not wake you. He rummaged through your pitch-black room, picking up a random piece of cloth, whether it was clothing or not, and turning back to your sleeping self. Your legs were once again opened, and you stirred slightly with every touch of the clothing item onto your inner thighs. Both of your releases stuck to you, and you seemed to forget already.

Silence came back once Dandy cleaned you up, leaving you to sleep peacefully. He went back to staring at you, watching you sleep. It made him happy, knowing you were satisfied, and his forever.

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

Taglist: @babygorewhore @slvt4jamesmarch @taintandviolent @tatelangdonsweater

#texty #ahs #american horror story #AHS freakshow #Freakshow #American horror story freakshow #Dandy Mott #dandy mott #dandy mott smut #dandy #dandy mott x reader #Smut #ahs smut #finn wittrock #Finn Wittrock x Reader #ahs x reader #x reader #ahs imagines

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temporarywelcome · 8 months ago

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Jezebel - James Patrick March

Word Count: 3.8k

Summary: Being in an arranged marriage with James March, but he's already completely smitten with his new wife, despite the fact he knows she plans on killing him. Hey, it's kind of hot.

WARNINGS: some swearing, some violence, death, sexual implications but no smut

A/N: they're so Gomez and Morticia. They match each other's freak. Yes, I used the vows from the Corpse Bride.

___________

James March was a very interesting man.

The way he carried himself as if he had no care in the world was enticing. He radiated confidence and grace, and was, well, an overall attractive man.

And he was to be her husband. A fiance she never even met till tonight.

It was 1923, a time where this “dating” thing was becoming popular, yet here the two of them were, meeting three weeks before their planned wedding. March was slowly becoming wealthier and wealthier, but his mother demanded he be wed, with a woman to take care of his estate while he did his business. Someone to care for him when she would eventually meet her own unfortunate demise.

And so his mother found Y/N L/N, a pure beauty that many men oggled over obsessively. She was young, single, and his mother just could sense the compatibility when she saw Y/N’s lovely picture. Her son would love this girl.

Except there was more to Y/N than meets the eye.

Sitting at the dinner table, James eyed her in curiosity. “Did you come here from a funeral, darling?” he asked cheekily, his usual charming grin etched onto his face.

She looked up from her plate, raising a perfectly penciled in brow, “Why yes, actually,”

He scratched the back of his neck, not expecting that answer. He had just meant to make a light-hearted joke about her attire: the long, ruffled black dress and hat to match in color, adorned with black and burgundy feathers. To accompany the clothing were sleek black gloves, lace along the wrist area. “Oh dear, my apologies. I hope I have not offended you.”

“No no,” she waved a hand dismissively, “It was not for anyone I knew,”

“Oh?” Now he was intrigued, taking a sip of his wine, the same color of her plump lips, “Then why would you attend such an event?”

“Death excites me,” she replied, and he was sure he had fallen in love right then and there, “As well as I find grief interesting to no end,”

“Interesting?” the man asked, smitten beyond compare, “What is so interesting about grief, my dear?”

Her lips curled into a devious smile, “How everyone grieves differently. Some cry, others laugh, some don’t give a damn. What I find the most hilarious is people establishing relationships. At a funeral of all places!”

“Horrid indeed isn’t it?” he asked with a chuckle.

“It is! A splendid horror!” Y/N nodded in agreement.

March watched as she expertly cracked open a crab leg, impressed in her abilities to do so without juices exploding everywhere. “You’re a stunning woman, you know?”

She looked at him from her meal and that devious smirk appeared once again, “And you’re a very handsome man, Mr. March,”

“Tell me, dearest, how old are you? Have you ever wed before?”

It looked like she had to think about it, which March thought nothing of at the time, already completely smitten. “Twenty-eight,” she replied, “And yes, I have,”

“You have? And what had become of that marriage?”

“All three were tragedies,” she replied, bringing a piece of crab to her mouth with a fork. Three?! “I’ve sadly been widowed three times. A black widow, you might call me.”

Three marriages that ended in the death of her spouse? March doubted this was any bit coincidental. “What an unfortunate event! On all three accounts! How did these poor souls die?”

“Ah, all different ways. My first had a heart attack. The second, I still think to be my true love, committed suicide. Not because of me, of course, as he explained why in his letter. The third, he… he was tragically murdered one night,”

Oh how intriguing of a woman she was! March asked, “Murdered! In what way?”

“His throat was slashed,” she answered, “And he was drained of his blood.” Y/N then took a sip of her wine, not at all bothered by the fact.

James March smirked, placing his chin on his palm as he stared at her. Oh, how infatuated he was. He was sure those death were not as she said they were. He was sure she had something to do with it.

And he was sure as hell that if he married her, he would be her next target.

Oh, what a lovely woman he was so willing to marry!

________

The next three weeks went by in a blur.

Y/N would wake up to endless gifts being left at her door: trinkets, jewels, flowers, heels, silk gloves, anything a woman could dream of. He would call her on the telephone at five p.m. every day just before dinner, and for those three Fridays he would take her on lavish dinners and dates.

He went above and beyond for the woman he knew surely wanted to kill him.

It was now the morning of the wedding, and Y/N’s telephone rang. She curiously went to it, grabbing the device and bringing it to her ear. Grabbing the other part in her unoccupied hand, she spoke into it: “Hello?”

“Hello, my dearest, I am thrilled to hear your beautiful voice this morning. It reminds me of sweet honey: smooth and-”

“James?” she interrupted him, “Why are you calling this early?”

James laughed lightly, “Because today is our wedding day, my love. I cannot call you at five p.m. because at five p.m. you will be in my welcoming arms! Are you excited?”

“I’m trembling in desire, darling,” she replied, “I must attend to my wedding preparations,”

“You will look absolutely ravishing, my sweet. Oh, how I adore you. I will leave you to your duties, anxiously waiting to wed my beautiful bride.”

“I will see you very soon, my handsome king,” Y/N said, “Goodbye,” She hung up the two parts of the telephone and set it back down, preparing herself for her big day.

Her fourth big day.

The stylists got to work, putting her hair in rollers, painting her nails a shiny jet black, carefully applying her dramatic makeup. She went for walks all done out, she wasn’t going to be caught slacking on her on wedding.

Fourth wedding.

That James March knew of.

“How long do you plan on keeping this one for?” her loyal servant, Ms. Barnes, asked, blowing on the nail polish adorning Y/N’s fingernails. “He’s a handsome one.”

Y/N thought for a moment, “I’m unsure. He is actually… sweet.”

“And rich,” said another servant, Ms. Michaels, busying herself with Y/N’s hair.

“So was her second,” Ms. Barnes pointed out, “And he lasted three months.”

“His riches are not of importance to me,” Y/N told her servants, “I do not need a man’s riches when I have my own,”

“How true, Ms. L/N,” Ms. Barned nodded in agreement, “There is no point in having men if it isn’t for one’s own entertainment.”

_________

This was marked the best day of James Patrick March’s short life.

He stood at the alter adjusting his bow tie with the biggest grin a man could have as he waited for his beautiful bride to grace the audience with her presence. Practically the entirety of Chicago came to the celebration of their love, rows upon rows of guests laid out before him as he anxiously waited.

And then she came down the aisle, the orchestra expertly playing the familiar tune of Here Comes the Bride as she took each step. She didn’t just want an organ player, she wanted the whole deal. The organ, violins, a beautiful symphony as she had her big moment. And of course, James was quick to make the arrangement for his beloved.

She was an absolute beauty, in a large dress that took up most of the aisle’s width. Black and lacey, with tiered ruffles, off the shoulder to show off her soft shoulders. Her veil was also black lace, partially covering her face, the back half dozens of feet long. His fiance was a maximalist, and he made sure she was about to get an equally maximalist wedding.

The wedding went as planned. When it was James’ turn to do his vows, he raised his hand as previously instructed during the practice, “With this hand, I will lift your sorrows.” he raised his chalice, “Your cup will never be empty, for I will be your wine,” he poured the red wine into the glass. Red as her lips. Her signature color. He placed down the chalice, grabbing a lighter for the candle that was in front of him, “With this candle, I will light your way in darkness,” Finally, he grabbed her ring, the blood ruby shining in the light of the candle, “With this ring, I ask you to be mine,” he slid it onto her slender finger before pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles.

Y/N perfectly recited the vows as well, slipping the ring onto his finger. They then took their glasses and took a sip of the sweet wine, before finally, sharing a kiss to seal the deal. James carefully moved her veil, revealing the face of the seductress that had his heart. His arms went around her as he leaned in, kissing her with all of the passion in him.

They were now wed.

The wedding activities soon began, the newly weds beginning their first dance. James brought an arm around her waist, pulling her close as they began to dance, “You look absolutely stunning, darling, you have impeccable taste of fashion,”

“Hm,” she replied with a smirk, “I think I have upset quite a few with the color of my dress,”

“To hell with them. All of them, jealous of your immense beauty,” said March, pressing a kiss to her jaw, “I just might be the luckiest man in this room. Such a dazzling woman I have in my embrace,” with a smirk, he whispered in her ear, “I could just die from excitement,”

_________

The next few months went by in a blur.

James March made sure to treat Y/N like a queen, spoiling her beyond compare. He knew she wanted to kill him, but did not say a word. She knew about his special new hobby. She didn’t say anything either.

Once the fifth month passed, Ms. Barnes, who was diligently doing Y/N’s hair, said: “I think we have ourselve’s a record. Five months, the longest you have kept a husband.”

She hummed in response, lighting a cigarette, “Correct. The longest. I have not become bored of him just yet.”

“Well, he’s not a boring man, Mrs. March,” Ms. Michaels mused, “He treats you like gold,”

“That he does,” Y/N said in agreement, a satisfied look on her face, “I don’t think any of my ex-husbands have treated me this well. It is quite… refreshing,”

“You don’t have to kill him, you know?” Ms. Barnes told her, “You’re allowed to find happiness,”

“But, Ms. Barnes, that is what gives me happiness,” she shrugged, taking a long puff of her cig, “There is just something so wonderful about…. Watching the life… leave their eyes,” she smiled sweetly, sighing in joy at the thought, “However, I quite like James alive. Perhaps I would need a new fix.”

Over the past few years (124, to be exact), Y/N had a cycle. She would tease herself, almost edge herself by only drinking the blood of animals to quench her thirsts, marry a man, and once she couldn’t handle it anymore, kill him. Usually in some fun, intricate way. Then she would feast on his blood until he was completely dry.

It was a fun game that has kept her satisfied for decades already.

Until now.

The thought of killing James March didn’t sound right to her anymore.

“We have a ball today,” she told her servants, “I’m sure I will find someone of use for the night,”

James had vowed to make two days of October the biggest spectacle of Chicago. October 30th, his birthday, which he named Devil’s Night, because he was dramatic like that. The day that came after was Y/N’s birthday, October 31st, Halloween, which very much fit her.

So not only was Devil’s Night a huge celebration, but so was Halloween, the night of James March’s beloved.

There was a soft knock on the door, and James entered the room, “My love! You look ravishing,” he practically pushed through the two servants, placing his hands on her shoulders, placing a few kisses along her neck, “Absoutely stunning, dear,” he then pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“James! You’ll mess up my makeup!”

“No matter, just reapply it. I’ll always buy you more,” James replied smugly, kissing her cheek again, “My beautiful wife. Happy birthday again. I feel my present for you would look lovely with your dress,” He glanced at Ms. Barnes and Ms. Michaels, “Shoo shoo,” he waved them off.

“Behave,” Y/N deadpanned.

“My apologies, dearest,” he said, though he obviously didn’t give a damn, “I just can’t wait to get you alone,” he nipped at her neck. Noticing the warning look in her eyes, he laughed, pulling away, “Fine fine, evil woman. Close your eyes while I give you your gift!”

Y/N smirked lightly, closing her eyes as her husband took out her gift. Obviously a necklace, feeling him place it along her neck, the large jewels cascading down her chest. He fastened the clasp, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck, “Open your eyes, darling,”

Her eyes opened, and she smiled in pleasant surprise. Of course, the necklace was adorned in huge diamonds, he was never cheap when it came to his beloved. “Oh, James, it’s wonderful!” she said, meeting his gaze through the mirror, “Thank you,”

“Ah, anything for you, my dear,” James smirked, squeezing her shoulders from behind, “My beautiful wife.” he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear fondly, “We could always be late to the party,” he said suggestively.

“Late? To my own party? I think not,” Y/N stood up, laughing at the pout on her husband’s lips, “Don’t fret, dear, I will be all yours when the night ends.” she promised, arms going around his neck as she stared into his dark, dark eyes, “But for now you must wait,” she stuck out her tongue, teasingly grazing his earlobe.

“You naughty girl,” James said in excitement, gripping her hips, ‘You Jezebel you,”

She giggled seductively, “All for you, my dear,”

Oh, she did not want to kill him. Not at all.

And so they left the room and made way to the grand spiral staircase. The couple stopped at the top, James releasing her hand, “Stay here, darling, let me introduce the star of the night!” he made the descent down each step until he stood at the bottom gathering the attention of the guests scattered all throughout their grand home. He introduced his wife, holding out a hand to her as she made her way down the steps.

Each step was careful and precise (like usual, her dress was huge), radiating confidence as she greeted her guests. Y/N took her husband’s hand, allowing him to bring her close.

The night festivities went as planned, Y/N certainly enjoying the effort her husband took into making sure her birthday went perfectly. He always went above and beyond for her, always seeking her approval. He was completely devoted.

After a while, Y/N purposely got separated from him in search of someone. A victim. If she wasn’t going to kill her husband, she had to kill someone else. She was tired of teasing herself.

It didn’t take her long to find some stupid man, some lawyer named George. He was quick to get handsy with her, so she led him off to one of the many guest rooms. He was desperately ripping at her dress, which she loosened up with an eye roll.

God she wasn’t in the mood for this.

She pinned him down to the bed, glaring at him darkly, tongue darting out to lick her lips. He was annoying. He didn’t have that sexy drawl like her husband. Those dark but comforting brown eyes. Those hands fit perfectly on her hips.

It wouldn’t matter to her if this man died.

And with a smirk, she raised a hand, each finger covered by a claw-like ornament, a gift from her loving husband, of course. He said it “fit her style”.

He was so right.

She let her index finger run along his chest, then slowly his throat, leaving goosebumps along the trembling skin, until with a swift motion, she swiped her finger, swiped the claw, and his throat was slit. Buying her face into his neck, she lapped up the sweet flavor of his blood.

Finally, she needed this.

As she hungrily drank, the door opened.

“Oh, dearest, whatever are you doing?”

Y/N shot up, head snapping in the direction of James March. Her husband. However, he didn’t seem terrified. Or pissed.

He simply laughed, arms going around her from behind, “My love is either a lunatic or a vampire. Or both.” he gripped the ribbons of her dress, tightening her corset to fix it, “I must say… It’s rather sexy.”

And so began a new dynamic.

James took it upon himself to do the dirty work. His wife should never get those soft hands dirty.

And so he did the killing, and she would watch, with a look of approval on her face. He would then take her hand and help her out of her chair and towards the body, admiring how she looked as she drank the man dry.

“That was supposed to be me, wasn't it?” He asked during one of their little “sessions”. “You wanted to drain me of my blood.”

She wiped her face with the back of her hand and she glanced up at him, “possibly.”

“It's alright, my dear, I take no offense,” he laughed, grabbing a cloth to clean off his knife. “I must have earned the right to live, huh?”

She smirked up at him, “not many would do this for their wives,”

And their dynamics continued. He killed, she ate, they had hot sex after.

And it worked well.

James ended up building a grand hotel, all of Chicago raving over it. The Hotel Cortez. He originally wanted to name it after Y/N, his beloved, but she herself told him that was a stupid idea.

They spent a lot of time there, whether it was to aid guests, host events, pass time, or even pick off a few victims.

After a while, they even began to discuss the possibility of children. James was dead set on two: a boy (named James March JR, of course), and a girl (named after you, of course).

Y/N made it clear she found that to be extremely boring. Just naming the children after themselves? How cliche.

Pretty much every night after basically rearranging her organs, he would lay with her and yap and yap and yap about how it's important for them to continue their legacies, and then he yaps some more about if the baby inherits her thirst for blood if it would be immortal and all these different questions.

They were planning for the future, until disaster struck.

A peaceful day in the hotel, James having his lovely wife in his embrace as he spoke to patrons. She went off on her own duties after a while, until meeting with James again in one of the rooms.

Something was wrong.

Once he saw her, he rushed to her and gave her a rough kiss, cupping her cheeks with such urgency, “My love….” He whispered, “someone ratted me out. Someone knew.”

“Whatever do you mean?” she whispered, hands going to his wrists as she looked up at him, “You mean…?”

“Yes, our little hobby,” March brought her against his chest, an arm around her waist, a hand raking through her hair, “Oh how I hope it wasn’t you who told. Don’t even tell me, I would be devastated,” he sighed, resting his chin on the top of her head.

“No, James,” she replied in a quiet tone, “I did not tell anyone. You know I love you.” She pulled away slightly to look up at him, “If I wanted you gone, you know I would have killed you myself.”

A soft smile reached her husband's lips as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, “Always the loyal wife. I adore you, my dear.” There was a hint of genuine sadness in his tone as he held her close. “Will you be the one to finish me?”

Y/N shook her head right away, “No!” she pulled away completely, “No, I won't. You've been the only husband I've loved. I can't…. I can't kill you.”

With another sad smile, he held her again, “I understand, dearest. Just… stay with me while I do it? Please?”

This couldn't be happening. It really couldn't.

But she nodded, face buried in his chest, “Yes… I'll stay with you,”

“Thank you, my love,” he sighed, kissing the top of her head. He held her for a moment before pulling away and taking her hand, sitting down. There was a knife on the table and he shakily grabbed it. “This won't be the first throat I slash,” he tried to joke, but it came out flat. James squeezed her hand as he brought the knife to his throat, but his wife speedily stopped him.

“I'll…. I'll do it,” she gulped out, trembling hand taking the knife from him and placing it back on the table.

“Are you sure? You don't have to, my love, I can do it myself.”

“No, no, I-I'll do it,” she repeated. Y/N seated herself on her lover's lap, arms going around his neck as she captured his lips in a desperate kiss. She could feel tears forming as she realized this would be their last kiss.

Her last kiss with the first husband she's ever loved.

Maybe this was her punishment for all of her terrible deeds. The universe taking away the one man she ever truly loved.

As they continued to kiss, she brought her clawed index finger to his throat, fingers trembling the closer she got. She pulled away from the kiss, “R-Ready?”

Despite everything, he smiled. “I'm ready, darling.” he pressed his forehead against hers, “I will always be with you,”

And with that, she slashed his throat.

Y/N let out a soft cry watching the life quickly leave his eyes, the one man she wanted to stay alive. “Oh, James…” she cupped his cheeks, kissing his lifeless lips. “I love you I love you I love you,”

She could hear loud footsteps coming up the stairs, and she knew it was time to go. She grabbed the knife, bringing it to his bloodied neck before placing it into her lover's hand.

And with that, she climbed out the window.

“I will always be with you,” the words hung in her mind as she went down the fire escape.

She didn't know he was going to keep his word, even in death.

---------

Yall i love him. inbox is open btw

#american horror story #ahs #evan peters #ahs hotel #james patrick march #james march #ahs x reader #james march x reader #james march x you #james march x y/n #james patrick march x reader #james patrick march x you

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im-ovulating · 1 year ago

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(A/n: I have no excuse or reason for this, but here ya go! lmao)

Word Count: 991

Summary: Even in death, Tate can't seem to shake his mother's insults. He DOES know how to make your legs shake, though.

Warnings: Praise Kink, Mommy Issues, Use of 'good boy" and 'pretty boy', Both Tate and Reader are a switch, Tate's a pretty crier

Age Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

(yes he gets 2 gifs, what about it?)

Tate Langdon x Fem! Reader: Shake

----------------

"-fuck!"

You spread your legs a bit more to take him deeper, both of you gasping out at the new sensation.

"I'm good, right? I'm good for you?" Tate is in shambles beneath you. A run-in with the ever-deprecating Constance left him in desperate need of some positive female praise and you couldn't just say 'no' to the tear-stained, brown eyes that begged for your comfort.

"Ah~" A smile breaks across your face as you lean down to pepper kisses along Tate's jaw. "You wanna be good for me? Wanna be my good boy, Tate, hmm?"

His cock twitches in you as you make it to his lips, lightly biting down on his bottom lip before lifting up just enough to make eye contact.

His hips jerk up to meet yours at a particularly hard thrust of your hips. "God- Yes! Wanna be so good for you! Wan' you t' use me. Use me any way you want; I'm yours! Mmh, hah."

You slide your hands up his chest to tug at his shaggy, blonde hair. "Just lay there and look pretty for me, then, hm? Can you do that for me, my sweet, pretty boy?"

He takes a second to answer, focused on how ethereal you look straddling him; using his body as you please, knowing how to bring both of you over the edge.

That's one of his favorite things about you: When he needs you to take the lead, he knows that you'll only take what you both need. That you'll command without controlling. That you understand his vulnerability and will only push him as far as he needs you to.

A groan is punched out of Tate as you clench around him, effectively snapping him out of it. "I can- ohh..."

Satisfied with his answer, you press a searing kiss to his waiting mouth. It's all tongue and teeth but neither of you care, too wrapped up in each other to mind. You slide your hands from his hair to caress his cheek.

"Such a good boy~" You singsong as you sit back, moving your arms behind you to support your weight on his thighs as you slam your hips against his with more vigor. His moans sending shock waves down your spine, settling in your already soaked core.

His hands move to grip your hips hard enough to bruise, but all it does is spur you on.

"Fuck, fuck- Please~" He shifts underneath you, causing his pelvis to rub deliciously against your clit.

"Oh god~ Tate!" Your head drops forward at the spike of pleasure.

You grab one of his hands to bring to your clit, desperate for the stimulation again.

Determined to be the best he can be for you, his finger works in tandem with every gyrate of your hips to tighten the coil forming in your core.

Ever the expert of your body, Tate helps you spiral towards your climax faster than you anticipated. You're gasping for breath as your walls start to clamp down on his cock impossibly tighter.

Tate lets out a groan at the feeling, his head pushes back against the pillow, thumb still rubbing firm circles on your clit. His eyes glisten with unshed tears as he tries not to cum.

"Don't stop baby... oh fuck, please," His plea is hoarse and gravelly as he starts to properly slam him hips up to meet yours.

"Wasn't- AH- planning on it." You let out a breathy moan as you fight the forming burn in your thighs, trying to focus on the heat curling inside you like an inferno instead.

"Oh- Fu- I'm so close baby. Please tell me you're close too." You can hear the strain in his voice. "Wanna cum with you~"

You're tensed like a rubber band being stretched to its limits as you try to keep pace. Your legs are shaking with the exertion, and you can barely lift yourself up.

"Tate- Tate, oh god, Tate!" His name is spilling from your lips like a Hail Mary in a mixture of content and desperation.

"What do you need, beautiful?" Tate pants. "Just tell me- tell me what you need from me and it's yours."

It's now that your legs decide to give out with one last quiver, dropping you against his torso. Without missing a beat, Tate flips you on your back, resting on his forearms as he takes over.

The sound of your heavy breathing fills the room along with the obscene squelching of Tate's cock as it pistons in and out of you and it's all you can do to not scream his name for the whole neighborhood to hear.

Almost instantly, Tate's boxing you in - arms flexing beside your head as he pounds into you. Your hands pull at his hair, dragging him closer to press his searing lips to yours once more.

"Good boy," you mumble into the kiss, broken moans leave the both of you just to get swallowed by the others mouth. "So good for me~"

Tate moves to bury his face into your neck, small cries mixed in with his groans and whimpers. "I'm good? Your good boy? Only yours?"

His questions start to get more frantic as his hips start to jackrabbit; his fingers digging even further into your skin as you both near your climax.

"Pleasepleaseplease-" he whines, begging you to cum with him.

And who are you to deny him such a simple request? Especially when he asks oh so politely.

"Cum, Tate -" you gasp. "Be a good, sweet boy and cum for me?"

And he does; a wet sob rips its way from his throat as he buries himself inside you, coating your insides with the pretty pearl of his spend. The heat flooding you is just enough to tip you over the edge as well - your nails scratch down his back as your head tilts against the pillow and your thighs tighten around his waist.

#tate langdon x reader #tate langdon x reader smut #tate langdon smut #ahs smut #ahs x reader #ahs murder house #tate langdon

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etoile-star · 10 months ago

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Why make them hot if their a killer?? Why make then be morally grey if their gonna be boyfriend shapped?

#ahs murder house #ahs coven #tate langdon #tate langdon x reader #kyle spencer #kyle spencer x reader #american horror story #ahs fandom #jimmy darling #jimmy darling x reader #ahs x reader #evan peters #evan peters x reader #kit walker #kit walker x reader

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whosbloom · 10 months ago

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Kyle Spencer » Scaredy cat

⋆.˚ summary/request: “So reader have a cute cat named idk 😭 and one day she bring her cat in the shared bedroom with post death Kyle, he was on his iPad trying to learn some new words when he see reader with a little animal in her arms he get scared because he don’t know what is this lil’ thing, but after reader introduced the cat to him he start to pat him and get comfortable around him.”

⋆.˚ fluffy fluff fluff , franken!kyle , i named the kitty eclipse because i’ve always wanted a cat named eclipse , i feel like this sucks but i always think my writing sucks

The bright screen illuminated his features as Kyle mumbled out the words echoing through his headphones.

He had spent the day learning as much as possible, wanting to be able to communicate with you better for when you would get back.

Though, when you stepped inside the room, he was taken aback by the small black ball of fur curled up in your arms.

“Hey, Kyle.” You smiled lightly as you adjusted your arm carefully, walking over to him and leant over to see what he was working on, before sitting down with a sigh.

His eyes immediately went to the ball of fur, slowly removing the headphones as he listened to it purring. His eyes shot open a bit pit of slight worry and fear, not knowing what it was, only causing him to become nervous.

“You good?” You spoke quietly, following his gaze down to the cat, realization hitting you as you slowly looked back up at him. “It’s a cat.. named him Eclipse.”

His gaze found yours, his brows knitted together as he moved the iPad to sit on the nightstand. “C-cat..?”

You nodded as he spoke, feeling as Eclipse slowly lifted his head and took in his surroundings, eventually looking up at Kyle and meowed. He didn’t know how to react, simply freezing up as he stared into his eyes.

“Kyle, it’s okay. He’s not gonna hurt you.” You laughed lightly, tilting your head to the side a bit. “You can pet him.. he won’t do anything.”

He let out a shaky breath as he carefully brought a hand up and placed it on his back, feeling the soft fur under his fingers as he lightly traced down his back, before mimicking the gesture a few times.

“Cat..” He spoke quietly again, a small smile forming on his lips as he ducked his head done to get closer.

After a minute he looked up at you again, moving his hands around a little to gesture he wanted to hold the cat.

“Alright, alright.. carefully, okay? Don’t want either of you getting hurt.” You moved his arms in a way that he could hold the small kitten, carefully putting Eclipse in his hold and ran your own hand down his back. “I’m assuming you like the cat already?”

He eagerly nodded, looking down at him with a wide smile, using one hand to carefully scratch his chin.

#whosbloom #kyle spencer fluff #kyle spencer fanfic #kyle spencer x y/n #kyle spencer x you #kyle spencer x reader #kyle spencer #franken kyle #ahs x y/n #ahs x you #ahs x reader #ahs fanfic #ahs coven

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dippindaz · 2 months ago

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AHS Evan Peters' Character Headcanons

Some general relationship HCs for Tate, Kit, Jimmy, Kyle, James, and Kai. I hope you enjoy :)

Warnings: Mentions of deaths (Not major character), disappearances, manipulations, all the expected with these characters. She/her pronouns used.

Tate Langdon

Tate is an emotional storm disguised as a soft boy. He clings to you like you’re the last good thing in his twisted little world. And in his eyes? You are.

He’s deeply romantic—but it’s the kind of romance that’s obsessive and intense. He’ll draw you, write poems, leave stolen flowers on your bed, and whisper lyrics from The Cure in your ear.

Touch-starved and clingy AF. He always wants to be close—laying his head in your lap, sleeping curled up beside you, holding your hand like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

Jealous and possessive. Big time. If he thinks someone else is into you, he’ll either get sulky and distant or go full chaotic and... well, you know how Tate can get.

He doesn’t always understand how to be good, but he tries for you. When you pull him back from the edge, when you forgive him after his darker moments—it means everything. He starts believing maybe he can be more than his worst day.

As a ghost, he literally can’t leave the house. So if you're living there? You’re his whole universe. He romanticizes every mundane moment—making you breakfast, watching movies, lying on the floor talking about the stars through the ceiling.

Warning: He's charming and damaged. Loving Tate means dealing with the heavy, haunted parts. But if you choose to stay? He will love you like you're his only salvation. And maybe you are.

Kit Walker

Kit is a quiet protector. He doesn’t always say much, but his actions speak volumes. He’d fix things around the house, make sure you’re eating well, keep a hand on your back when you walk into town together—little things that say “you’re safe with me.”

He’s incredibly emotionally intelligent, especially after everything he’s been through. He listens, remembers the little things, and knows how to comfort you without needing to ask what’s wrong.

Expect tender domestic moments—him cooking you breakfast while the kids run around, dancing to a record playing softly in the living room, sneaking kisses between chores.

He’s been through trauma, and it makes him fiercely loyal. You’re one of the few constants in his life, and he never takes that for granted. He tells you he loves you often—almost like he’s afraid he might not get another chance.

Kit would 100% trust you with his kids. Seeing you bond with them would probably be the moment he realizes just how deep his feelings run.

Very soft-spoken but intense. When he looks at you, it’s like he’s seeing everything good the world has to offer. It can be overwhelming in the best way.

Jimmy Darling

Jimmy’s love is rough around the edges. He doesn’t always know how to express what he’s feeling, but it’s always there—in the way he squeezes your hand, stands a little too close when someone’s bothering you, or gets grumpy when you’re not around.

He’s got a temper, but he’s working on it. You’re one of the only people who can calm him down with a word or a touch.

He’d be very self-conscious at first, especially about his hands. But once he trusts you, he lets you hold them without hesitation—and that alone is a huge deal for him.

He wants to show you off, even if he pretends not to. If you’re out in town, he walks with his head high and keeps you close. If anyone looks at you wrong, he's got a problem with them.

You’d be a major emotional anchor for him. Someone who reminds him that there’s good in the world, and that he’s worthy of being loved—without condition or fear.

There’s a deep vulnerability under his bravado. In quiet moments, he’d open up about his fears, his past, and the pain he carries. And when you comfort him? He melts. That’s when you see the softest side of Jimmy.

Kyle Spencer

Kyle is like a shattered mirror slowly putting itself back together. He's confused, scared, and overwhelmed—but when you speak to him, it’s like the fog lifts.

Super affectionate in a wordless, almost animalistic way at first. Lots of cuddling, head-on-your-shoulder moments, and grabbing your hand when he feels anxious.

He finds comfort in your voice. Even if he doesn’t understand all the words, the tone, the rhythm—it’s grounding. He’ll fall asleep with his head in your lap while you read or hum softly.

As he heals and regains more of himself, he becomes incredibly protective. You were kind to him when everyone else saw a monster. He’d do anything to keep you safe.

He struggles with guilt and shame. About what happened to him, what he’s become, what he’s done. When you tell him he’s still human—still worthy of love—it hits him so hard, he sometimes cries.

He’s very affectionate. Hugs, kisses on your cheek, leaning into you constantly, resting his hand on your leg. He needs the reassurance of being close to you.

Your relationship is built on trust, patience, and small victories. Teaching him how to cook again, laughing when he gets flour on his face, helping him read books he used to love—it’s all about rebuilding, together.

James Patrick March

James is the definition of old-school courtship—with a sinister edge. He’d spoil you with luxury, call you “darling” or “love,” and insist on wining and dining you in style.

He is obsessively protective. Once he sets his eyes on you, that’s it. He treats you like a priceless possession, always close, always watched (sometimes literally—he’s got spy holes in the walls, babe).

Very dramatic with his affection. Roses delivered every morning, handwritten notes sealed with wax, spontaneous declarations of love in front of horrified guests. The man has no chill.

He’s 100% the jealous type. If someone even breathes near you wrong, they’re disappearing into the walls of the Cortez. You might not even realize he’s done anything—until you notice how quiet the halls get.

Morally? Terrible. Emotionally? Surprisingly devoted. James believes in forever—even after death. You’re not just a lover, you’re part of his legacy now.

If you’re not into the whole murder thing, he’ll either “hide” it from you in a disturbingly condescending way, or try to “teach” you to appreciate it like he does. Either way, he’s not letting you leave. Ever.

Kai Anderson

Kai is magnetic, intense, and deeply manipulative—but if you’re someone he actually respects, the dynamic shifts. You become his grounding force, the one person who sees through his madness.

He constantly tests your loyalty. Little comments to see how you react, small setups to watch your choices. It’s exhausting sometimes, but when you pass? The praise is overwhelming. He’ll act like you’re his queen, his muse, his “chosen one.”

Physically affectionate, in a possessive way. An arm always around your shoulder, a hand on your thigh during “meetings,” brushing your hair behind your ear when you're upset—it’s both comforting and slightly unnerving.

He needs validation like air. If you compliment him or show him admiration, he lights up—but if you challenge him? Get ready for a full philosophical debate at 3 AM.

Surprisingly vulnerable with you. Late at night, when the followers are gone and the masks are off, he’ll talk to you about fear, loneliness, and his belief that the world is crumbling—and how only the two of you can fix it.

You might not agree with everything he says or does, but you understand the broken boy beneath the revolution. And that’s what keeps you from walking away (even if you should).

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mushroom-words · 4 months ago

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The Devil Take That Woman || Michael Langdon

Fandom: American Horror Story Pairing: Michael Langdon x Fem!Reader Words: 6318 Notes: Okay, so I'm not totally sold on the ending (I suck at writing endings), but I am pleasantly surprised with how this one turned out. Warnings: Dubious consent, death (mentioned and alluded to but not shown), Dom!Michael, Sub!Reader, Witch!Reader, fingering, hair pulling, choking, gagging, humiliation, crying, violence, spanking, nipple play, slight degradation, pussy slapping, fear arousal, autassassinophilia (paraphilia where a person is sexually aroused by the risk of being killed), spitting, restraints (by magic), biting, brief aftercare. I think that's all, but please please please let me know if I missed anything. Summary: Michael storms Miss Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies and eliminates the witches, but he has a special debt to collect from you.

Special shout out to my girl @langdonss for wholly enabling my lust for this demon spawn.

A SHROUD OF death seemed to loom over the academy. You felt it in the way your sisters were quick to snap at each other’s throats, in the way your powers seemed to fizzle out right when they reached their peak potential, in the way the gardens seemed to wilt. You even saw it in the way the sun and moon shifted positions from day to night.

It seemed to warn you of an impending danger. An inevitable travesty that would rock the foundation of everything still holding the world together.

Michael Langdon. His nature threatened humanity at its purest form, and he was rising quicker than anyone could stop him. He had passed the Seven Wonders with disturbing ease. He’d even brought four witches back from the dead as only a small demonstration of the range of his power.

The warlocks prophesied he was to be the next leader, known as the Alpha—and as Cordelia was fading far quicker than Fiona had crumbled, the future was looking bleak. In a time where the Antichrist was rising exponentially, there was no rest to be had. Every possible avenue must be investigated, and everyone was scrambling for a solution.

Cordelia prompted your name softly. “Zoe has offered to take over your class this afternoon,” she said, placing a delicate hand atop your shoulder like you were crafted out of the finest glass. “You’ve been working yourself to exhaustion. You need to rest.”

“We have to be prepared.” You didn’t lift your focus from the material spread out in front of you, your tired eyes desperately soaking up whatever information they could. “The only way to do that is to know everything.”

Your Supreme’s failing health had your coven fraying at the seams. Mallory looked to be well on her way to rising, and most efforts not centered on Michael Langdon were focused on helping her nurture her magic. But the cloud seemed to be closing in on the young witch too. She was starting to struggle to perform what had come very easily to her just months prior.

Desperation clawed furiously as the hourglass seemed to empty a little quicker each day. You’d taken to pouring your attention over religious studies. Whatever free time you had available between mentoring your junior witches and helping Mallory, you spent on learning all you possibly could on the Antichrist and its variants. Knowing the enemy was a vital step in defeating them.

Cordelia sighed. “You’ve done enough for right now, sweetheart,” she said gently. “You won’t be good to anyone if you’ve burned yourself out.”

You reluctantly looked away from the text and up at her. She offered a soft smile that no longer reached her eyes. There wasn’t much happiness that did anymore, but still, she tried to be strong for her girls. Just as you tried to be strong for her.

“I couldn’t have asked more from you than what you’ve already given to me yourself, (Y/N).” She pressed a palm against the curve of your cheek. “Give your eyes a small break. Try to get some rest.”

It was the soft plea in her tone that encouraged you to agree. Plus, the thought of a hot bath was almost too tempting for you to ignore. You’d been staying up at all hours cramming whatever knowledge you could in preparation for the holy fight you felt was edging closer. The prophesied battle of good and evil.

The marbled bathroom you shared with Queenie was your sanctuary—or, rather, it used to be. Not so much in the past few months. You set out a small pile of towels and your robe so they were within easy reach. Letting the water reach the perfect temperature, you decided to splash in some scented oils and bubble solution before easing into the porcelain tub. The familiar daily activity of Miss Robichaux’s floated up from downstairs. It soothed you to have it as a background noise, reminded you that your sisters were safe for the time being behind the wrought iron gates.

Right now was the only time that mattered most to you. It was the only time when your decisions could be made and determined to shape the future. What waited beyond right now was unpredictable at best but was utterly frightening to consider.

You had witnessed Michael Langdon’s ability firsthand. He had presented himself as your savior when he had sauntered up to you while you were reliving the very worst of your repressed memories, magnified by then, just as you’d been since your fatal blunder during the Seven Wonders years ago. The monster of your past had been slain valiantly by the very one who now had the coven tearing their hair from its roots.

Nobody but Papa Legba had the power to walk the realm of the Underworld—not until Michael Langdon had done the very same, freeing not only you but three of your sisters too.

It was terrifying what he could do. Even more frightening was what he was written to do.

A deafening series of gunfire shattered the casual peace. An ear-piercing chorus of shrieks and wails quickly followed suit. Lukewarm water sloshed over either side of the tub as you hastily ejected yourself from submersion. You just stared wide-eyed at the door while the screams of your friends and students—your sisters—echoed through the academy in sharp succession. Everything in you froze. You couldn’t move, forced to just listen to the chaos.

It fell silent nearly as abruptly as it had erupted. Too silent. Deathly silent.

Heart pounding and mouth dry, you shakily got to your feet, trying to make as little noise as possible. A million thoughts raced through your mind with enough speed to give you whiplash. There was no satisfactory response to any of them. You wrapped yourself in your plush bathrobe and slowly opened the door to peer into your shared bedroom.

“Where are they?”

The smooth tenor chilled you right down to your very soul. Michael Langdon—his voice carried through the halls, which you guessed were now hauntingly void of any of your sister witches. You could only hope that some of them had managed to escape or, at the very least, weren’t too badly injured. From what little you could overhear of the frustrated conversation, you were able to determine that Cordelia, Myrtle, and Mallory had managed to flee from the carnage.

The small spark of relief you felt at that was, however, short-lived.

“And what of our dear little friend (Y/N)?” He was dangerously close to your bedroom now. You’d barely heard his footfalls come up the stairs, let alone bring him so near to where you stood frozen. “It would be such a shame if she were whisked away with the other three.”

You swiftly ducked back inside the bathroom. Not a moment too soon, either, as you heard somebody enter the bedroom just a second after you clicked the lock into place. The footsteps were heavy now. Each crisp step of expensive leather shoes against the polished hardwood flooring sent a fresh wave of dread through you. You backed away from the door slowly, your bare feet merely whispering across the slicked marble.

The footsteps paused. You held your breath.

A gust of energy suddenly busted the door down. Your body was thrown through the air and into the opposite wall. The wave crashed just as easily as it had crested, and you crumbled to the floor. Your bones ached at the harsh impact of the hard marble against your soft flesh.

You reluctantly lifted your head, your blurry eyes trailing from those designer shoes and up the perfectly tailored suit until they met the icy stare of the man—the warlock, the Antichrist himself—who had been strategically chipping away at your sanity ever since he pretended to be your knight in shining armor.

A lazy smirk presented on those delectably pink lips, but his eyes held nothing but a darkness so deep it coiled invisible shadows around your fallen body. A darkness tinged with bloodlust, satisfaction, twisted amusement, and the excitement of a chase that had finally reached its lethal end.

“There you are,” he said softly, the words whispering along your skin like silk embedded with daggers. “I’ve been looking for you.”

He clasped his hands behind his back and took measured steps towards you. You scrambled up to your feet and around to the other side of the bathtub, placing it between you. You’d always wondered why someone would design a bathroom with the tub in the middle of the room, but now you were silently thanking them.

“Stay away from me, Langdon,” you demanded, your voice coming out much stronger than you felt at the moment.

“I think we’re past the formalities, (Y/N).” He continued an easy path around the bathroom, taking two steps forward for every one you retreated. “Your sisters are dead, little witch. And the others—well, they’ve left you here to fend for yourself, haven’t they? You’re alone,” he said.

You were torn between focusing on his approaching figure and being careful on where your feet landed, knowing one wrong move could result in you slipping in the puddles of water. It was difficult to keep your attention divided equally between them. Another step back, another step closer to the door. Not that you even dared to think you could just run out and evade him. But it might give you a fighting chance—if he allowed that much from you.

Biting back the tears that clung to your lashes, you thrust your hand out towards him. The energy thrumming through your veins centered warmly at your palm. It died there, fizzling out like it had been doing so frequently in recent days.

He chuckled quietly, the sound causing the hairs on your neck to stand to attention. “That might have worked before,” he said, sauntering closer still. “But I’m too strong now. Your magic is nothing compared to what I have.”

“What the fuck do you want from me, Langdon?” Fear squeezed your lungs until you were having to fight to get in any oxygen. Your fingers trailed along the edge of the tub to help guide you as you continued backing away. The door was almost within your peripheral vision now.

“What filthy words to come from such a pretty little mouth.” He clicked his tongue, running it along his teeth and shaking his head as though disappointed in your language. “I already have what I want, little witch. You’re right here.”

It felt like his words punched a hole in your chest. Your legs started to struggle to hold your weight up, like the realization was too much for your body to handle. Like it wanted you to give in to those feelings you’d fought against following your resurrection.

Michael Langdon might have needed the coven out of his way to achieve his overall goal, but he was after you specifically. He wasn’t happy that you had run back to your sisters to actively work against him, to give your all into plotting his downfall in order to save humanity from extinction. He wanted to keep you at his side.

Your coven had been the only reason you’d left him in the first place. If it hadn’t been for their unending love and acceptance, hadn’t been for the family they had given you for all those years, you would have listened to the burning desire you’d held for your savior and run into his arms.

Even now, in this little game of cat and mouse that had icy fear seizing your heart, you felt the dim fire sizzling in your lower stomach. Your body would always sing out for him regardless of the monster he was. It was a matter of mind over matter—heart versus body.

“No.” The word came out much too soft to convince anyone of your devotion to your sisters.

“Yes, little witch.” His voice dropped to a belittling croon that chased shivers up your spine. “You’re mine, and I’m not one to make the same mistake twice,” he told you.

You acted before you lost the courage to do so. Whirling around on your feet, you lunged for the door. It slammed shut just as your fingers grazed the doorknob. Your body continued to pitch forward, your bare feet losing purchase on the slippery marble. You cried out as you flung towards the floor.

Michael was in front of you in the blink of an eye. A hand wrapped firmly around your throat, the other planted against the small of your back, bringing your body flush to his. Your hands flew up to his chest to steady yourself as your face was tilted up, forcing you to look at him. Your pulse raced against his touch, lips parted to let loose tiny puffs of air.

He dipped his head until his ears brushed against the shell of your ear. “You can pretend to fight me—hate me—all you want, if that’s what makes you feel better,” he murmured, his honey voice a sweet caress over your frazzled nerves, “but we both know the truth, (Y/N). You were mine before the ashes of your fragile creation.”

Your lashes fluttered as you felt his fingers flex against the column of your throat. A turbulent storm churned within you, deafening claps of thunder pounding against the inside of your head and streaks of lightning branching out from your very soul, alighting your body with sin. Your head tilted back, lips parting further to let the pathetic whimper fall from them, your resolve starting to crumble into the very stardust from whence you came.

The tip of his nose dragged along your jawline. He inhaled deeply before letting the air back out in a contented hum, pulling back just enough for your heavy eyes to gaze into the depths of the devil himself. Your legs buckled beneath you under the weight of his stare, his hand pressing more firmly against your back, keeping you upright and so close you could feel every hard, lean muscle of his body against you.

“Langdon…” His name fell from your lips like a breathless prayer you begged to have answered. Your fingers curled into his suit, itching to travel north and feel the planes of his chest, the contour of his jaw, the angle of his cheekbones.

He leaned in. His lips whispered over yours, so close you could taste the cool sin on his tongue. “No. Say my name,” he demanded softly. “I want to hear you say it.”

Your tongue felt like lead in your mouth. Words bubbled up but died on your lips. All the things you wanted to say shriveled up and disintegrated like ash. You’re the devil, you wanted to tell him. A bastard born of sin with a heart of evil. You wanted to spit curses at him, tell him to get his hands off of you, demand he leave you alone and never to darken your doorstep again.

At least, that’s what you tried to convince yourself that you wanted to say. But the words fizzled from your tongue because you knew better. Sometimes the truth was more bitter than the lies.

“Michael,” you whispered.

His mouth slanted over yours as soon as the syllables rolled from your tongue. He swallowed every breath, every whimper, every last shred of your resolve as his lips commanded yours. His tongue pried them apart to claim your mouth, mapping out every inch, pushing against you in a dance that left no room for anything but your submission.

You melted into his touch with a shiver, your body malleable under his hands as your head went blank. All lingering reservations fled your mind at the way he turned you into putty for him to mold into his vision. The tears that clung to your lashes slowly fell in a final fight for the grief and despair that entrapped your heart in bitter vines.

Michael nipped at your bottom lip before pulling back. He moved the hand at your throat to press against your cheek, dragging his thumb along your cheekbone and tracing your swollen lips. Your watery lashes fluttered as you gazed up at him. He smiled gently at the tears he collected against his fingers.

“That’s it, little witch,” he murmured. “Cry for me. You look so pretty when you cry.”

A quiet sob wrenched from your throat. He hummed and slid his hand around to the back of your head. Tapered fingers wove between your damp hair before he suddenly yanked your head back. Your cry was swallowed by his mouth as it descended upon yours, lips hard and hungry and so delightfully sinful that your breath evaporated from your lungs.

Michael lifted his hand from your back and deftly plucked at the tie holding your bathrobe together. Cool air kissed your skin before the chill was chased away. He palmed your breast, rolling it in his hand and squeezing, a blossoming ache forming beneath his fingers. You arched your back with a whine as he trailed his lips along the curve of your jaw and down to the thin flesh where it met the slope of your neck. He sucked your pulse point into his mouth, dragging his teeth over where it fluttered before sinking them into the skin.

You mewled pathetically, hands flying from his chest to slide into his hair, fingers grappling at the golden curls as your body trembled with an ache that left your skin flushed. His fingers pinched your nipple, rolling it in his touch before tugging the hardened peak and forcing you to rise up on the tips of your toes. Another cry wrenched from you as he balanced you so perfectly on that precipice between pain and pleasure that had your head floating in the clouds.

He released your nipple and traced his hand over the curve of your body, dragging his fingers along your flesh until they wedged between your thighs. Your legs threatened to collapse when he cupped your pussy. His name left your swollen lips in a breathless plea, syllables broken and cracked as you shifted to widen your stance for him. He groaned quietly and pulled away from your throat, pausing only to lave his tongue over the pretty imprint he left on your skin. Your hands fell back to his chest as he straightened.

“So wet already, little witch,” he mused. “Tell me—is this all for me?”

Michael dipped into your folds, gathering the evidence of your arousal. Shame plucked at your conscience like a harp. Nothing about this situation was right. It was wrong—so very, very wrong. It was the forbidden fruit that always tasted the sweetest.

He lifted his hand in front of your face. Separating his index and middle finger, showing you the sticky slick that clung to his digits. Closing your eyes, you tried moving your head away, not wanting to be faced with what you already knew. Michael clicked his tongue and grabbed your face, pinching your cheeks and puckering your lips out, your slick smearing across your flesh.

“Eyes on me, princess,” he demanded softly. You reluctantly brought your gaze back to him, fresh tears clinging to your lashes. He smiled. “Good girl.”

Michael released your face and tapped his fingers against your lips. They parted in a quivering acquiescence to his silent command. He slipped those fingers into your mouth, pressing them against your tongue and pushing back until you were gagging around them. You tried to raise your hands to his wrist, desperate to dispel his fingers from your mouth, but they remained rooted at his chest—you couldn’t move. Forced to just stand there and take what he decided to give you.

He smirked as the realization caused your gaze to shutter. “You look so good like this, (Y/N). Gagging, completely at my mercy. You were made for this.”

Michael yanked your head back further, shoved his fingers deeper until they slid down your throat, and watched you struggle to breathe through your growing panic. Desperate, you bit down, and he merely clenched his teeth against the pain, releasing your hair to grab your chin. He pulled it down so you couldn’t bite anymore, his blunt nails scratching gently across your jaw as he did.

Only when you were on the verge of either blacking out or vomiting did he withdraw his fingers. A string of saliva kept them tethered to your lips. Coughing and struggling to take in a proper breath, you shoved him away from you, only vaguely registering the magic that had held you prisoner in your body had been lifted.

“What the fuck, Langdon?” you spat, your voice strained and choked between the gasps of air you sucked down into your lungs.

Michael tsked and drew you back into him. He whipped you around until your back pressed against his front. His hand cradled your throat, thumb nudging your jaw until your head tipped up. The tip of his nose dragged along your damp cheek.

“And here I thought we were finally getting somewhere.” He sighed, the exhale fanning across your face. “You’re gonna be screaming my name, little witch, until it’s the only one you remember. Your submission tastes so fucking sweet,” he murmured.

He kissed your cheek before dragging his tongue over the tears that fell. You shuddered at the wet trail left in its wake, a whimper pushing past your lips as you fell further back into him, eyes growing heavy as his hand squeezed the column of your throat. His fingers pressed on either side of your windpipe until your head was floating back into the clouds of depravity.

His lips came to rest at your ear, the smooth tenor of his voice prompting your pulse to race at the promise it held. “I’m never letting you run from me again, (Y/N). Even if that means I have to keep you tied to my bed until you realize you belong to me—and there’s nobody left out there to come save you.”

Keeping his hand around your throat, he walked you forward until you stood before the bathtub. When your legs hit the porcelain, he pressed his lips to your temple, released a contented hum, and shoved you forward. Your hands flew out to catch yourself before you were dunked in the water, a sharp gasp pulling from your lungs as you gripped onto the opposite ledge, keeping yourself held up.

“Langdon—”

He brought his hand down sharply on your bottom, cutting off your words with a quiet cry. Your hair was roughly twisted in his fingers as he yanked your head back, forcing your neck to arch at a near impossible angle that had your thighs shaking as your bare feet slipped in the water on the marble floor. The only thing keeping you upright were his hips pinning you against the bathtub.

Michael flipped the bottom of your bathrobe up to your lower back and spanked you again. “That’s not what you call me, (Y/N),” he said calmly, rubbing his palm over the stinging flesh. “Try again, princess.”

Your fingers grappled at the ledge of the tub. You tried to push yourself up, to gain a bit more leverage, but quickly realized you were once again held completely at his mercy. Magic kept you exactly where he wanted you—stuck in place, completely at his mercy, unable to move anywhere past where he positioned you.

The sensitive flesh of your inner thighs grew slick with your growing arousal. It forced a pathetic moan from your throat, eyes slamming shut as the humiliation swirled with the lingering shame. Your soul was tainted. Corrupted. Black as the sin that shrouded the magnificent Boy Wonder whose destiny laid out a path for world domination.

Maybe he had sensed it in you when he’d pulled you back from hell. Like calls to like—and maybe your soul was so twisted, so deliciously depraved, that it reached out for him like a red string of fate.

Maybe this was where you were meant to be. At his mercy. Under his control.

The Antichrist’s little pet.

“I can’t hear you, little witch,” he said after a moment, leaning down to whisper the unholy filth into your ear. “Who do you belong to?”

“Y-You,” you whimpered, feeling yourself falling further from grace with each passing breath.

“And what’s my name?”

“Michael…”

“Good girl.” He shoved your head back down, your face stopping just a mere inch away from the water. His boot nudged at your feet until your legs spread to his satisfaction.

Two fingers suddenly pushed into your cunt. No resistance—he just slipped in easily, the realization making your face burn as you acknowledged just how turned on you were for this man. This fucking beast of hell. Your mouth popped open in a soft moan, your legs already shaking under the expertise of his touch.

You were already falling apart for him, and he’d only just gotten started.

He curled his fingers to press against a spot inside of you—a spot you hadn’t realized existed until now—that threatened to wipe away any sense left inside your mushy brain. Your body quivered like a leaf caught in the wind, senseless noises slipping from your lips, your walls fluttering around his digits as slick leaked out to coat his hand.

Every attempt to push back against his fingers only stoked the frustration bubbling inside your chest. You whined, clenching your jaw as he dragged his fingers against your gummy walls, stroking you so beautifully that stars started to pop off in your vision.

“Look at you, little witch,” he mused, scissoring his fingers inside of you, twisting them with every plunge inside of your cunt, drawing obscenely wet noises from where he worked you. “You’re drooling for me, aren’t you? What would your dear Supreme say, hmm?”

A silent sob wrenched from your throat, your eyes slamming shut as you desperately tried and failed to rock back against him. Your breaths were starting to come out in ragged gasps, your chest heaving, bottom lip sore and swollen from how hard you’d embedded your teeth into it. The tang of blood trickled onto your tongue when you bit down on a particularly rough plunge of his fingers.

Michael chuckled and brought his hand down on your ass, coaxing a high-pitched squeal from you at the burn that mingled with the fire stoked in your lower stomach. “Answer me, (Y/N),” he said—you didn’t need to be looking at him to know he was smirking, taking a twisted enjoyment out of your body’s reaction to him. “How would Cordelia feel if she knew what a sweet little harlot her precious witch is for the devil’s spawn?”

More tears squeezed from your lashes to drip down into the cool water below you. Your senses were going haywire, your body fighting with your mind, your heart with your soul. How could someone so fucking evil make you feel so damn good—bring you to heights of pleasure you’ve never dared venture before with just his touch? God, Cordelia would be so damned ashamed of you if she knew. All of your sisters would.

Consorting with the enemy was one thing. Submitting to the Antichrist, laying yourself bare and all but begging him to fuck you, was another entirely. You were unbelievably pathetic. Disgusting. Living up to a witch’s reputation as the devil’s whore.

He promptly withdrew his fingers at your silence and smacked your pussy. You cried out, struggling against the magic holding you in place. Then he shoved three digits back inside of you, his motions much rougher than before, blunt nails scraping against your walls to create an illusion of bliss that teetered with pain.

“I’m feeling generous, princess, so I’m going to give you one more chance,” he sneered. “Now tell me—how ashamed would your Supreme be if she saw you spread out like this for me?”

“She—She’d hate me,” you cried. The truth slammed into your chest, breaking your heart into a million little pieces to be picked up later. But it was overridden by the overwhelming desire flooding your system. Your walls clenched around his fingers, the band of lust around your chest tightening to a breaking point. Every muscle was tensed and coiled, prepared to release as soon as that coil snapped.

Michael hummed, then you heard him spit, felt the saliva land on your ass and slowly trail down to where he was plunging into you. You groaned as it mixed with the evidence of your arousal, listening to the way your slick squelched with every movement. Your legs shook almost violently from the expert way he played you like a fiddle, knowing exactly where to press his fingers and how deep to draw out your pleasure.

“Fuck, Michael,” you mewled, your breath catching in your throat as you felt the wave start to crest, a mere foam on the horizon. “P-Please…”

“Please what, princess?” he cooed, suddenly twisting those wicked fingers just right, making you cry out in pure, filthy desperation for him to bring you to release. “Are you gonna cum, little witch?”

“Yes,” you sobbed. Your neck was starting to ache from keeping your head held up above the water, your hips from being pressed against the sides of the tub.

Michael traced up the curve of your spine, the heat of his palm radiating through the plush robe, before weaving his fingers back into your hair. He gripped tight but didn’t pull your head up like you expected him to. Instead he leaned forward, his front pressing against your back in firm lines and lean muscle, placing his lips right back at your ear.

“Deep breath, (Y/N),” he instructed coolly.

You sucked in a breath at his words but didn’t have the chance to let it back out when he suddenly shoved your head under the cold water. Your eyes popped open only to be met with the sting of the oils and bubble solution you’d poured in there earlier. Panic gripped at your chest. You still couldn’t move, but you thrashed your head, trying desperately to dislodge his grip from your hair.

His fingers withdrew from your cunt but were quickly replaced. Michael snapped his hips forward, sheathing his cock inside of you in a single thrust. Immediately your mouth opened to release a muted scream. The bath water filled your mouth, sucking down your throat and into your burning lungs. Your entire body shook beneath him. The panic turned into the purest form of fear you had ever felt, topping the dread you’d had when you’d found yourself in Papa Legba’s clutches.

Michael reached around your hips to place his fingers at your swollen clit. He rubbed it in tight, quick circles that almost instantly catapulted you over that ledge. Your walls clenched around him, your slick coating his cock as the coil finally snapped, a fire branching outwards to burn its way through your body. It licked its way down to your toes and the tips of your fingers.

Darkness started to edge into your vision like a vignette. Your lungs screamed for oxygen. You tried holding your breath for as long as you could even through the tremors of your orgasm, through the feeling of Michael fucking you, his cock stretching your walls to their limit, filling you to the brim in a way you would be crying for if you hadn’t been on the verge of drowning.

Was this his way of making sure you never ran away from him again—was he going to fuck you until your heart stopped beating?

Just when you were about to try to breathe, when you thought you were going to pass out, he pulled your head back up to the surface. You greedily tried to suck air down into your lungs. Immediately you began to cough, dispelling the water you’d ingested past your burning throat. Michael wrapped his arm around your throat and yanked you to hold you to him. The grip was light enough not to constrict your breathing, but you were too far gone to appreciate it, let alone realize the magic gluing you in place had been lifted.

He continued to rub your clit, the overstimulation linking with the oxygen deprivation and near-drowning experience to force you into a floaty headspace where nothing made sense. Static buzzed in your ears and your vision was overtaken by a flash of white. Everything hurt—yet, you’d never felt so high up in the clouds.

More water pushed past your lips just as you were dragged into the depths of a second release. You would have collapsed if it hadn’t been for Michael holding you up, pinning you against his body as he continued to thrust up into you, his grunts fizzling through the static to reach your ears. You thought you might have heard some semblance of words but couldn’t make them out through everything beating you into a pile of malleable clay to be molded by his hands.

Rising higher and higher, everything around you blanked out until you were no longer aware of anything. Maybe he actually had killed you, and this was a sort of limbo space before you would be dragged back to Papa Legba, forced to relive your very worst nightmares over and over again for the rest of eternity.

Would he leave your body there, or would he dispose of you? Would Cordelia, Mallory, and Myrtle eventually return to the academy to find you cold on the bathroom floor, surrounded by water and marked by the beast?

Your lashes fluttered as the static surrounding you started to fizzle out. The first thing you heard was your ragged breathing, your lungs still crying out for precious air, your chest heaving as you struggled to give them what they needed. Then his voice floated inside your head. It started out as a mere whisper, muffled like you were still held under the water, but gradually became more clear.

“You’re okay, (Y/N). Breathe with me.”

Then you felt him. Felt his lips pressing against your temple and your cheek. You felt his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, felt the thrum of his heart in his chest. An arm was wrapped around your waist. His fingers brushed through your hair, keeping it out of your face.

You blinked heavily as more of the world returned to you. Your head was lolled back on his shoulder. His cologne filtered through your nose. Your lips parted as a quiet moan slipped past them, your tongue heavy in your mouth.

He tightened his hold around your waist. “Breathe with me,” he repeated, taking in slow, deep breaths. Unable to do much else, you focused on following his pattern until your own breathing had evened out. “Good girl. There’s my little witch.”

Clarity starts to bleed back into your system now that your brain was getting an adequate supply of oxygen. You silently took in your surroundings through heavy eyes, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. Michael had you between his legs as he sat on the ledge of the bathtub. Your cunt ached in a way that only came from being fucked beautifully, and you could feel the sticky liquid seeping out to coat your inner thighs. You were empty now, meaning he was no longer inside of you.

“What—” You winced at the rawness of your throat, the raspiness of your voice. “What the actual fuck, Langdon?”

Michael chuckled softly, nuzzling his nose against your cheek. The intimate feel of it made you shudder. His chest rumbled with the sound. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your manners already, princess,” he said. “I’d be more than happy to remind you.”

You rolled your head away from him. “Fuck off, Michael,” you scowled, spitting his name like it left a vile taste in your mouth.

His hand shot out to grab your jaw, twisting your head back around to face him. Crystal eyes met yours in a clash of hardened ice that made your stomach lurch. Your breath hitched in your throat, lips parting to let loose the last of it before the rest got stuck in your windpipe.

“Don’t mistake my mercy for weakness, little witch,” he said coolly. “You’re only alive because I’ve made it so. Watch your tongue.”

Michael suddenly pushed you off of him. Legs still shaky, you stumbled but kept on your feet. He stood to his full height as you whirled around to face him. It was with a rush of disdain that you took note of his put-together appearance. He looked as he did when he first barged into the bathroom. Then there was you—drowned in the water that filled your lungs, bathrobe hanging open, flesh on display with pretty bruises blossoming against your abused skin and lashes clumped with teary remnants.

He sauntered up to you as you fumbled with the tie on your robe. His hand wrapped around the column of your throat, pulling you closer to him. You resisted the urge to shove him off of you, a heavy realization of being totally, completely fucked draping over you.

Michael Langdon owned you. You were his to do with as he pleased.

“What a pretty little thing you are,” he mused, smirking at the way your pulse fluttered beneath your touch. Your fire hadn’t yet been snuffed out, but you had the good sense to bite your tongue, even if he could hear all of the insults you wished to throw at him passing through your mind. “Tell me, (Y/N)—who do you belong to?”

You swallowed thickly against his hand. “You, Michael,” you said softly. “I belong to you.”

#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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redroses07 · 1 year ago

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real

#made by me #american horror story #evan peters #ahs #ahs fandom #ahs murder house #tate langdon #tate langdon headcanon #tate langdon fluff #tate langdon x reader #ahs memes #ahs asylum #ahs x reader #violet harmon #ahs apocalypse #murder house #evan peters x reader

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wherewritersgotodie-blog · 1 year ago

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Superstitious (Kai Anderson x reader)

“swear on your life you don’t want me.”

warnings: smut. penetration w/o protection. dom!kai. oral (reader receiving). light degradation & taunting. bdsm themes. kinky. idk what else prob smth

You were Winter’s best friend since middle school. Two girls who grew up to have the same values, the same beliefs, and a lot of love for each other. She took care of you, you took care of her.

Every Saturday, you went over to her house for dinner. Sometimes you’d go out to parties, some nights you’d stay in and watch a movie.

So, as always, you knock on Winter’s door at 6pm on Saturday evening with a bag of take-out hanging from your left arm. You waited at the door, almost going to knock again, just before the door swung open, her asshole brother Kai, not Winter, standing at the door. “Hm. My favorite little brat. What can I do for you?” He cocked his head to the side, leaning his arm against the door.

“Uh… I’m looking for Winter?” You say, sliding sideways passed him, underneath his arm.

“She didn’t text you?” he asked.

“No, why?”

“She’s gonna be out tonight. She went to campaign. I thought you were going with her!”

“Oh, fuck!” you say, “I totally forgot. I’m such a flake.”

“It’s fine. She’s good on her own.”

“And she called me this morning. Damn. Whatever, I’m going next weekend. It’s fine,” you say, mostly to yourself. Then you turn and reach out to open the door.

“Hey, wait!” he called out, “You’re taking the food?”

“What, you want it?” you asked, raising your eyebrows, holding out the bag.

“Are you kidding?” he said, taking the bag from your hand and placing it on the table.

“Alright, see ya,” you wave dismissively.

“Bye, slut,” he responded, sitting down at the table.

You get in your car and turn the keys. The car stalls. Shit. You turn the keys again. The engine sputters.

You walk back into the house, your keys swinging around your finger. Kai is lifting weights in the living room when you get back in. He stops to turn and look at you. Those muscles. “Hey, big guy, any idea how to fix an old Honda?”

“Yeah. Get a fuckin’ new car,” he laughs to himself.

“Kai, seriously,” you say with a whiny tone, pouting.

He caves, exhaling. “Fine. You owe me.”

He saunters out to the car, popping the hood. He looks at it for a few minutes. “Well, I could fix it, but my box is in my car. Winter has it,” he says, leaning on the front of the car, crossing his arms.

“Shit,” You say.

“You can wait here ‘til she gets back,” he smirks.

“Uhm, I think I’ll walk home,” You say, looking him up and down, “Thanks…”

“Walk home? Across town? Alright,” he says, slamming the hood shut then walking back toward the house.

You looking down the street, the wind hitting your face, freezing cold. “Ugh,” you say, then run up behind Kai. He holds the door open for you.

“Attagirl,” he says, smirking.

“Whatever.”

“Don’t be a bitch or I’ll make you walk home.”

“You wouldn’t,” you say, smirking, leaning against the doorway.

“I would,” he says, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I totally would.”

You walk to the sink. He watches you bend over the counter slightly and reach up on your tippy toes. “Why are your glasses all the way up on that shelf?” You say, frustrated.

He walks up behind you, grabbing a glass. He then raises his hand to hold up the glass out of your reach. You look at him in frustration. “Come get it,” he smirks.

“Kai, stop,” you say.

“Come get it or I’m not giving it to you.”

“Ugh!” you say, then try to reach up to grab the glass. He lowers it, then pulls it away. You reach up again. “Please?” you ask.

“There we go,” he says, handing you the glass. “Was that so hard?”

“You are a huge dick,” you say, filling up the glass.

“You wanna know about my huge dick?” he whispers in your ear from behind you.

You cringe, scrunching your nose, “Ugh! Gross.” You turn around, taking a sip from your glass.

“Right,” he smirks. He looks down at you, cornering you into the counter, slowly, so you almost don’t notice it. “So you don’t ever think about me?”

“What?” you say, turning red, putting the glass down.

“You don’t think about me fucking you? Ever? You’ve never thought about it once?” he says, leaning his arm on the cabinet.

“I- No! No, I haven’t,” you affirm.

“Really? Swear on your life?” he smirks.

“What?”

“Do you swear on your life you’ve never thought about me fucking you?”

“That’s not fair. You know I’m superstitious about that. I don’t know everything I’ve ever thought!” you retort.

“Fine. Swear on your life you don’t want me. Swear on your life in the past week you haven’t thought about me fucking you and liked it?”

“I,” you pause, panicking. “Fuck this! I’m not doing this with you.”

“I knew it!” he smirks, “I knew you had a crush on me,” he says victoriously, backing away from you completely.

“Oh, you are such an asshole!” you shout, embarrassed.

“And you like it, that’s the fucked up part,” he says.

“Stop,” you glare at him, blushing a deep red, “Seriously.”

He walks up to you again, pressing your back against the counter, putting one hand on the back of your neck, one on your waist. Your breath hitches. Your chest heaves. You blush, looking up at him, eyes flickering all across his face.

“Right,” he smirks, nodding like he had just proven what he knew all along. “Swear on your life you aren’t wet as fuck right now.”

He’s a fucking sadist.

“Kai, please,” you say breathlessly.

“Do it. Do it or I’ll find out myself,” he whispers in your ear.

You feel like you’re drowning, your breath is so heavy. He is relentless.

He waits a moment, smirking at your silence. He then puts his hand down your leggings, over your underwear. When he feels a large pool of wetness through the lacy fabric, he closes his eyes for a moment. “Fuck,” he whispers.

He pulls his hand back up, making sure to brush his fingers over your clit long enough that you ache when he puts his hand back around your waist, pulling you against him.

“How long have you had a crush on me?” he says, looking you in your eyes.

“I don’t know,” you breathe.

“Nah, you do. Tell me,” he said quickly, confidently, the words almost stringing together into one word.

“I don’t know, a couple years,” you mumble.

“A couple years?” he laughs. He slides his hand down over your leggings between your legs again, “Shit, you must like this then.” He rubs you, sliding his hand roughly, even possessively, farther down and up, his middle finger in line with your clit.

You moan, leaning your head against his chest. “Yeah… Yeah, you do,” he says in a mocking tone. You can hear his malevolent smirk. “You like it a lot.”

He uses his other hand to wrap around where your jaw meets your neck, forcing your face up to look at him. “So you do want my huge dick?”

You stare at him, biting your lip. Were you really about to fuck your best friend’s brother? Really? Seriously? No. You should say no. You’re gonna say no.

“Yes.” Shit.

He picks you up, wrapping your legs around his hips, holding you by the back of your head, stroking your hair, and around your waist. You lean your head over his shoulder. He carries you to his room.

He throws you onto his bed.

“You’re a fuckin’ slut,” he smirks, leaning down to kiss you, positioned between your legs.

“Not usually,” you deny mindlessly.

He grabs your breasts through your shirt, letting out a low growl. “So you’re just my slut, then?”

You look up at him. “I didn’t say that.”

He then pulls your one leg farther towards him so you’re forced on your side, then he smacks your ass hard through your leggings. You gasp, then blush.

He raises his hand again, smirks and brings it down harder than the first time. You whimper. He rears his hand up one more time, then stutters, searching for your anticipation. He sees your expression carved into your profile. Were you… smiling?

He was rock solid now.

“Shit, you like that?” he laughs. “Anybody ever do that to you before?” he pushes you again onto your back.

“Uh-uh,” you respond.

“Yeah… you are my little slut,” he affirms. Then, he kisses you deeply, holding you by the back of the neck, his other hand wandering down your body, squeezing periodically.

You lean up suddenly, so he offers no resistance. You put your hands up his shirt, pulling it up. He leans down to allow you to pull it over his head. You through it onto the floor.

Everything accelerates viciously after this one move.

He pulls off your shirt, throwing it to the floor. You begin to unbuckle his belt, and he attempts to pull off your pants. It’s chaotic; your hands are clashing, you’re getting in each others’ way.

It becomes, to Kai, at least, a race to see who can get the other bare faster.

Obviously, Kai wins. He pushes your hands to the side many times, pulling your leggings over your legs, unclasping your bra with his one hand (concerning, but you ignore it), throwing it to the floor. Then, he leans down to your hip bones and he pulls your underwear off with his teeth.

You haven’t even finished unbuckling his pants.

He throws your body so your head is against his pillows. He crawls up to you, leaning over you, necklace hanging in your face.

He’s a fucking animal.

Just like you imagined.

He kisses you harshly, nearly biting you. Then, he kneels, legs tucked under themselves, widely spread. He pulls your body up, wrapping you around his waist again. He is holding onto your entire body like his life depends on it, kissing down your neck, sucking on your collar bone. You are scratching at his back, head tilted to the bed, eyes closed.

He throws you back down again, then puts his head between your thighs.

“So easy to toss around,” he talks against you.

He begins working on you with his tongue. You wrap your fingertips in his hair, tugging at it, pressing his face farther into you.

He takes only a few moments of this before he comes back so his face is in line with yours. He grabs your wrists and presses them together above your head. He squeezes them hard for emphasis.

“Don’t move them,” he whispers. You know he’s serious.

He leans back down, continuing to you work you with his tongue. He wraps his arms around the highest place of your thigh, pulling you down into his face.

Your back arches and he chuckles against you. The vibration shakes to your core.

It hits you all at once and you unravel beneath his mouth. It’s so intense you convince yourself you’ve died for a moment.

He leans himself back up to hover over you, wiping his mouth with his hand.

You stare up at him in admiration. He does not miss this. You keep your hands above your head.

He pulls his belt off, laying it next to both of you. Then, he pulls his pants down, along with his boxers, all in one smooth movement.

Fuck. He wasn’t kidding.

What were you even supposed to do with it? Surely all of him wouldn’t even fit inside you.

He smirked as he saw your train of thought reflected on your face.

In one swift motion, he flipped you over so you were on top of him, hovering over his thighs.

He leaned up, grabbing your wrists, putting them together behind your back.

He held them together with his one hand, grabbing his belt with the other. Then, with a few moments and his two hands behind your back, looking into your eyes, he tied your wrists together. You struggled against the leather, but the crafty contraption was totally foolproof.

Then, he grabbed your hips, leaning back to rest his back on the two pillows stacked against his headboard.

“You okay?” he asked with a genuine smile, putting his hand on your arm.

“Very,” you nod.

“Good,” he said, and that was all he needed. He put his hand back on your hip, lifting your body up so you were hovering over his length. “Breathe,” he commanded.

You took a deep breath and he sunk himself into slowly, pulling you down onto him. You dropped your head back, letting a moan escape.

He groaned, also leaning his head back, “Holy shit,” he dragged out the words. “Holy shit. Fuck.”

His grip loosened on your hips as he was fully submerged in you. “Woah,” he whispered. You smiled at the commentary.

He kept his hand on you, pushing you back and forth. You worked on him, rolling your hips and pushing yourself up and down on top of him.

You moaned out as he thrusted himself up into you slightly. It had to be at least eight, you thought.

You both move against each other with an intense rhythm, your hands behind your back, his traveling all across your upper half.

He watches you intently, his mind worshipping the sight of all of you on top of him like this, eyes gliding down your hips, over your stomach, your face as you bit your lip and closed your eyes in ecstasy. He groans deeply, almost growling, digging his fingertips into your hips.

He pushes himself forward so he’s sitting, his one hand behind his back, propping himself up.

You rest your forehead on his shoulder and he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you back and forth against himself, the entire warmth whole bodies in full contact.

“Fuck, Kai!” you moan.

“Yeah, baby?” he smirks, his forehead coated in sweat.

You feel that you’re going to finish again, and he feels that he will, too. You pull away, looking into his eyes. He looks back into yours.

Then, you rest your forehead on his. The knot in your stomach is wound so tight you can barely breathe.

His chest is heaving, which is saying a lot, considering his fitness.

“Oh, fuck,” you moan against his mouth. He nods.

You both release at the same time, him grasping onto your body, you moaning into his ear, him groaning against your neck.

When he finishes inside of you, you both pull away. He laughs, and you do, too. He undoes the belt behind your back.

You pull away from him, laying beside him.

He lays on his back for a moment, then turns on his side, propping his head on his hand, tracing his fingertips down the center of your stomach.

“My slut,” he whispers. You turn to him, pushing his shoulder playfully.

Then, he kisses you, smiling into your mouth.

When he pulls away, he looks at you, then smirks. You watch him, smiling, slightly confused. He pushes himself up from the bed, then leans down to look underneath it.

“Oh, shoot,” he says.

You cock your head to the side, “What?”

“Toolbox was here all along,” he smirks, putting his hands on his hips.

if you liked this pls tell me i love validation. also i will take requests asf

#kai anderson x reader #kai anderson ahs #kai anderson #american horror story #ahs x reader #evan peters x reader #evan peters #evan peters ahs #ahs fanfiction #ahs #tate langdon #kit walker #peter maximoff #i love him #badly

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ahqkas · 10 months ago

Text

♯ GOD KNOWS I TRIED ; kit walker

PAIRING! kit walker x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS! kit is a true gentleman at heart, and he does what kind men do : he protects the ones he cares about ( based on this req.!! )

WORD COUNT! 4.1k

WARNINGS / TAGS! angst, fluff if you squint hard enough, mature / suggestive themes, briarcliff asylum warnings, sister jude and her punishments + lmk of more if found

NOTES! my man my man my man . all the credits to the devider bellow belong to @/v6que !!

THE RAIN FELL IN RELENTLESS CASCADE, DRUMMING AGAINST THE GLASS WINDOWS OF BRIARCLIFF ASYLUM. The night was clothed in darkness and the only source of provided light was the occasional flash of lightning that illuminated the gothic architecture of the asylum. The heavy rain had changed the surrounding landscape into a dark blur. The expansive green lawn, overgrown and wild, seemed like it came out of a horror story with its ghostly flashes, revealing the twisted forms of ancient trees and the labyrinthine tangle of bushes. The wrought iron gates, their ornate designs now almost swallowed by the storm, groaned softly as they were tossed around by the wind.

Inside, the atmosphere was equally grim. The asylum's corridors, long and narrow, were bathed in a dim, flickering light from the aging fluorescent fixtures that barely pierced the gloom. Each flash of lightning revealed glimpses of the asylum's interior: the scattered, old furniture, the barred windows, and the heavy, locked doors. The harsh light highlighted the grim details of the inside — rusting fixtures, peeling paint, and the long shadows cast by the iron bars on the windows.

The nuns had decided to host one of the famous movie nights. It was a tradition they upheld during every stormy night in an attempt to calm down the residents who would become agitated by the loudness that came with the storm.

The main common room had been transformed for the occasion. The dim, oppressive lighting was softened by the warm, flickering glow of a makeshift projector setup, casting a gentle, almost nostalgic light across the room. The walls, lined with faded, institutional artwork and peeling paint, were obscured by heavy, tattered curtains that had been drawn over the windows to shield the patients' wandering eyes from the storm's fury outside. The dusty curtains hung in uneven folds. The nuns had also arranged a selection of worn, overstuffed chairs and mismatched couches in a semi-circle around the small projector that sat on a makeshift table. The screen was a large, slightly yellowed sheet stretched taut across a wooden frame and its surface bore the scars of countless previous showings.

You sat on one of the overstuffed couches positioned in the back row of the common room, your figure partially hidden by the shadows cast by the dim light of the projector. The couch you occupied was a faded, floral-patterned relic, its cushions soft and sagging from years of use. The upholstery, once vibrant, had long since dulled to a muted palette, its once-bright colors now blended into the overall gloom of the room. Everything was dull here in Briarcliff. Your posture was relaxed because of the warmth the man beside you provided.

Kit Walker, a kind man once you got to know him, was the sanest person in the whole building besides yourself and you were glad to form an alliance with him. Although, there were feelings nestled deep inside you, ones you didn't have to say out loud for him to see and feel. That man had a strong jawline and high cheekbones that gave him a chiseled, almost heroic appearance and that alone gave your knees the right amount of shake to fall for him. You found out he had a natural ability to really listen and offer comfort and he carried himself with a quiet dignity, not seeking validation or praise but simply remaining true to himself despite the circumstances.

Kit Walker was the man of your dreams.

The screen was currently displaying an old, black-and-white film, its grainy images flickering in sync with the erratic flashes of lightning outside but you couldn't force yourself to pay any amount of attention to the supposed entertainment. The film's dramatic scenes, with their exaggerated gestures and artificial emotions, seemed almost absurd compared to the thoughts that were dedicated to the man sitting next to you.

And the same could be said about Kit. The way the occasional light from the projector cast soft highlights across your features, emphasizing the curve of your cheek and the depth of your eyes, made you seem almost ethereal and Kit was losing it. None of the workers could force him to sit on the moldy couch and torture himself with boredom when you sat quietly beside him, distracting him with just simply being there.

He noticed your subtle, distracted glances toward the screen, but your eyes lingered more on him than on the film. Kit could feel the way your eyes followed the play of light and shadow across his face, how you seemed to be drawn to the warmth he provided rather than the outdated drama on the screen. He found himself smiling softly to himself at your distraction with a knowing look in his eyes. You wanted him as badly as he wanted you.

Leaning slightly closer to your body, Kit's voice was low and warm as it hit the side of your face, barely above a whisper to avoid breaking the fragile atmosphere that had settled around the two of you. "You know," he began and a hint of playful amusement appeared in his tone, "we don't really have to stay here if we're not into the movie."

"What do you mean?" you asked in the same tone as him, your voice a gentle murmur that barely competed with the distant hum of the projector. When you exhaled, the warm air hit Kit's face.

Kit's honey-brown irises shimmered in the darkness, and he subtly nodded toward the exit of the dimly lit room, where the storm outside was barely audible against the noise of the film. "I was thinking . . . maybe we could sneak away, find a quieter spot where we can actually do whatever we want. What do you think?"

The suggestion was simple, yet it carried the promise of a more intimate and personal escape from the boredom of the asylum's common room. The thought of stepping away from the dreary atmosphere was an enticing one. Yet, the fear of feeling Sister Jude's sick pleasure held you back. Sister Jude, with her sharp eyes and ever sharper tongue, seemed to delight in catching the patients of the asylum in any moment of weakness or rebellion. Her authority was absolute, an iron hand that loomed over every corner of Briarcliff, and the idea of stepping out of line — even for a brief moment — carried a weighty sense of risk. You could already imagine the way Sister Jude's eyes would narrow in satisfaction, her lips curling into that smug, almost sadistic smile she reserved for moments when she exerted her control.

You still remember what she did to Grace. What she did to Lana.

And yet, the allure of escaping with Kit, even just for a little while, was difficult to resist.

"I don't know, Kit," you whispered in a trembling voice as you voiced your worries to him. "What if we get caught? You know how Sister Jude is. She'd make an example out of us, and I — I don't think I could handle that. I don't want to give her the satisfaction."

He could see the fear in your eyes, the way it held you back, and it only made him more determined to protect you. "[Name]," he said gently, his voice low and reassuring, "nothing's going to happen. I promise you that. We'll be careful, okay? And even if something does happen, even if Sister Jude catches us, I'll take the blame. She won't lay a finger on you."

"Kit..." you began but he cut you off with a slight squeeze of your hand. You didn't question when he took hold of your palm.

"Trust me, [Name]," he murmured, his thumb gently brushing over your knuckles repeatedly. "I won't let her touch you. I'll take the heat if it comes to that. But right now, let's just get out of here, even if it's just for a little while. We deserve that much, don't we?"

There was a warmth in his voice, a quiet strength meant to reassure you in ways nothing else at Briarcliff ever could. Kit was right — both of you did deserve this. And you could use the sweet release from the asylum's cruel grasp.

You took a deep breath, nodding slightly as you made up your mind. "Okay," you whispered into the darkness. Kit could feel the touch of your words against his lips. "Okay, let's go."

His hand was firm and reassuring as he helped you to your feet. Every movement of his was carefully done, as if even the slightest noise could shatter the fragile veil of secrecy he had cast over the both of you. The dim light of the common room flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the floor, but you moved with purpose, slipping quietly through the rows of seats, avoiding the eyes of the staff and the other patients who were too engrossed in the film to notice your departure. Sister Jude should hire more responsible staff.

Once you reached the doorway, Kit paused, glancing back to ensure no one was watching before gently guiding you with a strong hand against your lower back into the darkened corridor beyond. The heavy wooden door closed behind you with a soft creak, and the two of you were finally alone, the distant sound of the movie a only faint hum behind. You moved quickly through the long, lonely corridors of Briarcliff Asylum, footsteps barely audible on the cold, tiled floors. The rain continued its assault on the windows with no sight of stopping. Kit led the way, his grip on your hand never faltering.

As the both of you rounded a corner, the sound of distant voices reached your ears — staff members making their rounds. Kit's fingers tightened his hold on yours, pulling you closer as you pressed yourself against the wall, breaths held in unison. The voices grew louder for a moment, then faded as the staff continued down another corridor, oblivious to the two figures hidden in the shadows. Relief washed over you along with the vivid pictures of Sister Jude's punishment. You needed to find a place to hide, somewhere quiet where you could steal a few moments of peace away from the watchful eyes.

Finally, you reached the heavy metal doors of the kitchen, pushed open just enough to allow a sliver of light to escape into the dark corridor. Kit glanced around to ensure you were alone before gently pulling the door open wider, gesturing for you to slip inside first. He followed right after you.

The kitchen was quiet, dimly lit by a single overhead light that cast a soft glow across the industrial steel countertops and rows of neatly organized utensils. The scent of cleaning supplies mingled with the faint aroma of fresh bread that had long since been cleared away.

And before either of you could think or second-guess, you were drawn together like magnets. Kit leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both tender and filled with urgency. The kiss deepened quickly though, passion flaring between the two of you like a wildfire as everything else faded away — the asylum, the storm, the fear. All that mattered was this moment, this connection. His hands found their way to the small of your back for the second time this evening, pulling you closer as his lips moved against yours with a hunger that matched your own. You responded in kind, slender fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer as if afraid that letting go would mean losing this fleeting moment of intimacy.

The heat of the kiss spread through you both when Kit's strong hands slid down to the bottom of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. The feel of your body against his was intoxicating, and he moved with purpose, carrying you to the nearest counter. With a fast and urgent motion, he set you down on the cool steel surface, hands brushing aside utensils and making space for you, painting his hands with flour in the process.

Your heart raced as Kit's hands roamed your body, exploring with both desire and respect. His touch was precise as if he was memorizing every curve, every inch of your skin to remember for the rest of his days. He kissed you again, this time slower, savoring the taste of your lips as his hands moved from your waist to your hips, then slowly up to your back, pulling you closer to his body and hiking your knees up even more, leaving white fingertips in their path.

You responded in kind, hands tracing the sculpted lines of his shoulders, down his chest, feeling the muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt. There was something so raw, so real about the way he touched you — as if this was the first time in a long time he had felt truly alive. Your fingers danced across his skin, exploring the planes of his body with the same amount of desire. Kit's hands slid up your sides and under the hem of your gown, his thumbs brushing against the soft skin just above your underwear, creating a shiver that traveled down your spine. You arched into his touch, breath hitching as you felt the tension coil tighter within you.

"Kit . . . I—" you couldn't finish your sentence, the words lost in a breathless moan as his hands wandered lower, his touch sending waves of pleasure through you.

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. The intensity in his gaze was undeniable, a mixture of raw desire and something deeper, something that made your heart pound even harder. That look — told you how much he wanted you, how much he needed this, how much he needed you — made you tighten your legs around his waist. "I've got you," he whispered, his voice rough. It was a look that made your heart race and your body ache for more.

The door swung open with a suddenness that shattered the intimate bubble you had created, the sound echoing off the cold, sterile walls of the kitchen. Kit froze, his grip on your hips tightening instinctively as you both turned toward the intrusion. The harsh overhead light of the corridor spilled into the room, illuminating the figures standing in the doorway.

A tall, stern-looking man in the uniform of the asylum staff stood there, his eyes narrowing as they fell upon Kit and you. His presence was imposing, his broad shoulders blocking out most of the light from the hallway, but it was the figure behind him that sent a jolt of fear through your chest.

Sister Jude.

She stood in the doorway like a dark omen, her presence dominating the small, dimly lit kitchen. The air around her seemed to chill, as if the very atmosphere cooled from her disapproving gaze. She didn't need to raise her voice to command attention; her mere presence demanded it. The rosary beads hanging from her waist clicked softly as she took a measured step forward, the sound eerie in the tense silence of the room.

The staff member followed the head of this asylum, his eyes flicking between Kit and you, the disdain in his expression unmistakable. "Found them, Sister Jude," he said with a cruel satisfaction. "Just like you suspected."

Kit quickly released you and his hands dropped from your hips to tug at your gown. The least he could do was to save your modesty as much as he could. The man stepped back, positioning himself slightly in front of you as if to shield you from the inevitable wrath of Sister Jude. Your heart pounded in your chest, the warmth of the moment disappearing into the cold reality of the situation just like Kit's hands.

Sister Jude's icy gaze shifted from the staff member to Kit, and then to you, her brown irises narrowing further. "Well, well," she began loudly, her voice echoing in the silent room, cutting through the tension easily. "I always knew you had a penchant for trouble, Mr. Walker, but this . . . This is a new low, even for you." She took a step closer to you, her heels clicking ominously against the tiled floor. "And you, Miss [Last name] . . . I expected better."

The weight of her words pressed down like a leaden shroud, suffocating any remaining trace of the warmth and connection that had filled the room just moments before. It was as if the very walls of Briarcliff had closed in around you both, trapping you in.

Kit stood his ground, though every instinct screamed at him to protect you from the storm that was about to break. His jaw clenched tightly, the muscles in his neck tensing as he fought to maintain his composure. His hands, which had just moments ago been tenderly caressing your skin, now curled into fists at his sides. But beneath that facade, there was also a flicker of fear — not for himself, but for what you might endure at the hands of Sister Jude if his plans failed. He squared his shoulders, drawing himself up to his full height, and locked eyes with the cold woman before him. "It was my idea," Kit declared, his voice firm and unwavering despite the tension that crackled in the air like a live wire. "Leave her out of this." His words were a shield, a desperate attempt to keep his promise, to protect you from the consequences that he feared would be far worse for you than for him.

Sister Jude's eyes flickered with something that you couldn't quite place — an emotion that lingered somewhere between suspicion and a twisted, almost predatory satisfaction. Her thin lips curled into a faint, humorless smile, and the cold glint in her eyes seemed to sharpen, as if she were savoring the moment. She took another slow step forward and her gaze shifted from Kit to you, who stood just behind him, face paler than usual.

"Oh, I have no doubt it was, Mr. Walker," each word was enunciated with deliberate precision, as though she were savoring the power she held over the two of you. "But both of you will be held accountable for this . . . indiscretion."

"I'm the one who's responsible," Kit's voice cut through the oppressive silence with a determined edge. "It was my idea, and I should be the one held accountable. Leave [Name] out of this."

Sister Jude's expression flickered with a moment of surprise, but it quickly settled back into its usual look. Her eyes narrowed as she took in Kit's words, her mind no doubt calculating how best to respond to his unexpected act of bravery. "Very well," she said, her tone clipped and devoid of sympathy. "If you insist on taking the blame, then you will be the one to bear the consequences." The woman turned her attention to the staff member who had followed her into the kitchen. "Go to my office. Fetch the cane. The one I reserve for my favorite patients."

The staff member's brow furrowed slightly, but he didn't hesitate. He gave a curt nod and turned on his heel, disappearing through the door with a purposeful stride. The sound of his footsteps echoed faintly down the corridor as he made his way to retrieve the instrument of punishment.

Sister Jude's gaze returned to Kit and Dahlia, her expression unrelenting. "You've chosen to make this difficult for yourself, Mr. Walker," she said, her voice dripping with a cold satisfaction. "And while I commend your misguided sense of honor, it changes nothing about the punishment that awaits you. And you, miss [Last name], shall watch what happens once stupidity takes over the mind."

Your heart ached at the sight of Kit standing his ground, his body tense with the weight of his decision. You wanted to protest, to beg Sister Jude to reconsider, but the words caught in your throat, choked by the sheer weight of the situation. Instead, you reached out, your hand trembling as you grasped Kit's arm, trying to offer some measure of comfort and support.

Kit looked down at you, his eyes softening just for a moment before he turned his attention back to Sister Jude. "Whatever you're planning, I can take it."

"Your bravery is noted. But bravery will not protect you from the consequences of your actions."

The staff member returned, carrying the cane with a deliberate and solemn expression. The cane was an old-fashioned implement, its polished wood gleaming menacingly under the kitchen's harsh lights. It was a feared symbol of discipline, one that had seen many hands and many uses over the years, and its presence in the room only heightened the sense of dread.

Sister Jude took the cane from the staff member, her fingers tracing its surface with a possessive, almost reverent touch. "This is the cane I reserve for my most . . . memorable patients," she said, her voice low and chilling. "It is reserved for those who require a lesson in obedience. You will stay and watch. This is part of your lesson as well — understanding the consequences of defiance."

Kit's pants were pulled down by the staff member, exposing his bare bottom to the cold air of the kitchen. The sight of his exposed skin, vulnerable and waiting, was a sharp contrast to the determined set of his jaw. He braced himself against the edge of the kitchen counter, his knuckles white as he gripped the surface for support.

The cane was held firmly in her hand, and Sister Jude raised it with a practiced ease, preparing to deliver the first stroke. The sharp whoosh of the cane slicing through the air was followed by a resounding crack as it made contact with Kit's bare skin. The sound was a brutal reminder of the severity of the punishment, and Kit's body tensed, a muffled grunt escaping his lips as the sting of the cane seared into his flesh. The printed redness flared bright against the pale tone of his skin.

Your eyes filled with tears as you watched, heart breaking at the sight of Kit's suffering. The sight of his reddened skin, the way his body flinched with each stroke, was almost too much to bear. Every crack of the cane seemed to echo through your own chest and you felt like throwing up.

The punishment was relentless, each crack of the cane drawing a sharp gasp or low moan from Kit, his breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts. His eyes remained fixed straight ahead, and he tried to maintain his composure, though the strain of the punishment was evident in the tension of his muscles and the way his body shook with each hit. His only concession to the agony was the occasional clenching of his jaw and the muffled sounds that escaped him.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Sister Jude stepped back, her breath even and controlled. The cane was lowered, and she regarded Kit with a look of detached satisfaction, as if the punishment had been a necessary chore rather than an act of cruelty.

Kit's body slumped slightly, his breathing ragged and labored as he tried to regain his composure. His bottom was marked with the angry red welts of the punishment, the skin raw and tender from the relentless strokes of the cane. Your eyes were filled with anguish as you looked at him, the man who had taken the blame upon himself to protect you.

Sister Jude's gaze then turned to you, her expression one of stern disapproval, before she and the staff member exited the kitchen. "You've seen what happens when rules are broken. Let this be a lesson to you."

Your heart raced, pulse pounding in your ears as you rushed to Kit's side. Your movements were frantic, driven by a desperate need to offer him some measure of comfort and relief from the suffering he had endured. Tears streamed down your cheeks, blurring your vision as you approached him, hands trembling more than ever as you reached out to touch him. "Kit, I'm so sorry."

Kit turned his head slightly to look at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and something softer, a flicker of gratitude for your concern. He took a deep, shuddering breath and attempted to straighten up, though his body protested with each movement. "Don't," he said softly, his hand reaching out to drape over your shoulders for support. "It's not your fault. I chose this. And I would do it again."

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