#tate langdon drabble

[fear-is-truth]

Hello Bestie! Thinkin thots bout pussydrunk Tate loving it when you pull his hair and try to stop him from eating you out, but he’s having too good of a time fucking you with his tongue to stop. He’s also jumping the mattress, and he’s really close to getting off on your desperate little whimpers!

content warning ; MDNI 18+

munch tate. he’s got that dazed, blissed-out look—eyes half-lidded, pupils blown wide, moaning into you like he’s the one being taken apart. when you try to push him away, fingers tangling in his curls, he just whines, gripping your thighs tighter and pulling you even closer. he’s grinding down against the mattress, rutting helplessly, desperate for any kind of friction. and your little gasps? the way you whimper his name, all breathless and needy? that’s what pushes him over the edge. he’s so far gone, so drunk off the taste of you, he’s barely even aware when he cums, but the way you tremble against his mouth? yeah, that’s his favourite part.

[ahqkas]

♯ CIGARETTES OUT THE WINDOW ; tate langdon

PAIRING! tate langdon x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS! a brown eyed boy with messy hair and pretty smile from the neighborhood offers to light up a cigarette for you

WORD COUNT! 2.7k

WARNINGS / TAGS! fluff, heavy mention of cigarettes and smoking, mentions of reader struggling mentally, + lmk of more if found

NOTES! i need a pretty brown eyed boy with messy hair to light my cigarette for me . all the credits to the devider below belong to @/v6que !!

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

IF CIGARETTES WERE SO BAD FOR YOU, WHY WERE YOU CRAVING THEM LIKE YOUR MOTHER'S TOUCH OR YOUR FATHER'S ATTENTION? How something so small, so seemingly insignificant, could wield such power over you? That finely cut paper filled with cured tobacco leaves caused serious damage to your physical health yet it improved the state of your mind.  

When you held it against your lips and took the first drag, it felt like the first breath you take after being underwater for too long. A rush of adrenaline along with relief, if only for a moment. The nicotine coursed through your veins, wrapping around your brain like the softest of dreams and you ached to reach for it again and again like a child for a hand that was never there. You knew it was killing you slowly, each inhale wrapping around your lungs as if shadow marred its very own presence and each exhale a reminder of the damage you were doing. 

The warnings were there, on every pack. 

It wasn't the act alone that hooked you so hard. The feeling of what the cigarette provided was the real deal. You lit up to quiet the voices in your mind, to numb the ache of loneliness, to dull the reminders of your repeating days. The bitterness of the tobacco, the way it scorched your throat and left a lingering taste on your tongue, was a small price to pay for the way it soothed your soul, however briefly. 

And it was brief — each cigarette only lasted a few minutes. But those minutes were precious. They were yours, and in a life where so much felt out of control, that small sense of ownership was everything. You were the one who decided when to light up, when to take that first drag, when to exhale and watch the smoke curl into the air, disappearing like the worries you wished would do the same.

The night was cool, the air heavy with the damp scent of earth and the faint aroma of wood smoke coming from your neighbor's chimney. It was one of those nights when you felt like your shoulders were loaded with such a burden that there was no way out. At least the night sky didn't disappoint with its beauty — millions, billions of stars were flickering upon the darkness, shining brighter with each passing minute. You sat on the porch steps of your new house, your knees drawn up to your chest and a cigarette dangling loosely between your fingers. 

You felt the coolness of the unlit cigarette against your fingertips, the promise it held lingering in the back of your mind. It was as if time had paused, the night holding its breath alongside you. You toyed with the idea, rolling the cigarette gently between your fingers, feeling the slight bumps of the packed tobacco inside. There was a certain comfort in just holding it — a familiarity, a sense of control over something so small. 

The porch light cast a soft, golden glow around your form, but beyond that, the yard was swallowed by shadows.  

Should you light it? The thought lingered, heavy and persistent, as you stared at the fragile cylinder in your hand. Your parents disapproved of their children smoking and the thoughts of disappointing them felt too heavy for you.  You brought the unlit cigarette to your lips, mind spinning with thoughts you couldn't quite grasp. Everything felt too much — too heavy, too overwhelming. You were suffocating under the weight of it all, and this cigarette, this tiny thing, felt like the only tether to the world you could control. The cool paper pressed against your teeth, offering a strange comfort. 

For a moment, you just held it there, as if the act of lighting it would be too final, too irreversible. The familiar scent of tobacco teased your senses, but something held you back. The night's stillness, the way the shadows seemed to reach out toward you, and the deep sense of unease that had settled in your chest all seemed to whisper, not yet. 

Then, the creak of the porch door behind you shattered the fragile silence. Your heart skipped a beat, fear spiking through you as you imagined your parents standing there, their disapproving eyes catching you in this vulnerable moment. Panic washed over you, the cigarette trembling slightly between your fingers as you fumbled with it, trying to keep the drug out of sight. You couldn't bear the thought of facing them, of explaining what you couldn't even fully understand yourself. 

But when you finally found the courage to turn around, it wasn't your parents. Relief flooded your system immediately as you saw Tate standing there, his figure half-illuminated by the porch light, half-swallowed by the darkness behind him. He always had a way of appearing just when you needed him, like a ghost materializing out of thin air.  Without a word, Tate slid down beside you, the movement smooth and quiet. The space between the two of you shrank until your shoulders brushed and his knee knocked into yours softly in greeting. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence between you was thick but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that made you yearn for the person's presence because you liked how they made you feel.

And Tate made you feel good in a way that was hard to put into words. It wasn't just his presence, though that alone was enough to soothe the twisted edges of your thoughts. It was the way he understood you without the need for explanations, the way he could step into your personal space and fill it with a quiet strength that seemed to steady everything around you. Tate made you feel good because with him, you felt whole, like all the broken parts of you could finally be mended. 

You kept your gaze ahead on the darkness of the yard, occasionally glancing at your hands, all while feeling the weight of the boy's eyes on you. He was watching you, or perhaps analyzing your actions, but the weight wasn't heavy. With him, everything seemed easy. 

He was the one to break the silence with his voice low, sounding like gravel sliding over stone. "You shouldn't smoke, you know. It's bad for you."

Huffing a soft, bitter laugh, the sound escaped your lips as a faint, misty cloud in the cool night air as your eyes flicked toward him, catching his gaze through the veil of your dark eyelashes. There was a hint of pure amusement in your expression. "It's pretty ironic coming from you," you murmured, voice laced with a touch of mockery. You looked down at the unlit cigarette, rolling it once more between your fingers.

"But it's not like it matters, right?" you continued, your tone shifting to something softer, almost wistful. "It's just . . . something to do."

You shrugged, the gesture small and almost unnoticable, as if trying to dismiss the meaning of what you had just said. But the words you wanted to say lingered in the air between you. It wasn't just about the cigarette — it was about the need to fill the void, to occupy the empty spaces that stretched out endlessly in your life. It was about finding something, anything, to hold onto when everything else felt so fragile.

Tate's brown irises flickered with something you couldn't quite place — a glimmer of understanding, maybe. It was as if he saw through your casual words, past the nonchalance you tried to project, and into the deeper, more vulnerable parts of you that you kept hidden from the entire world. 

He understood you as if you were two sides of the same coin.

The boy didn't say anything at first, just watched you with that steady, unreadable gaze that seemed to pull at the edges of your carefully constructed facade. Then, with a slow movement, Tate reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt, the faint rustle of fabric the only sound breaking the quietness surrounding you. He withdrew a lighter, its polished metal surface catching the porch light for a split second, casting a brief flash of brightness that contrasted sharply with the darkness around you. The lighter was simple, a worn silver Zippo with a few scratches along its surface — evidence of years of use, of countless times it had been flicked open to ignite a flame. 

Tate's movements were smooth and practiced as he flicked the lighter open, the familiar click of the metal lid snapping back echoing softly in the still night air. The sound was almost comforting in its predictability, a stark difference to the unpredictability of your thoughts and emotions. A small flame grew to life, its warm, golden light flickering gently as it cast a soft glow on Tate's face, illuminating the chiseled lines of his jawline and nose, and the softer curve of his lips. His skin, usually pale, seemed to take on a warm hue in the firelight, adding a touch of color to the otherwise cool tones that seemed to follow him wherever he went. And his hair, a tousled mess of blond curls that framed his face, caught the light as well, the strands turning golden where the flame touched them, adding a softness to his otherwise sharp features. The way his hair fell, slightly over his forehead and around his ears, gave him a boyish look that contrasted with the haunted expression in his eyes, which made him seem both young and impossibly old at the same time.

You hesitated, eyes locked on the flame, mesmerized by its hypnotic dance. It was such a small thing, yet it held so much power — the power to transform, to ignite, to bring both comfort and destruction. You could feel the warmth radiating from it. Tate waited, patient and unwavering, for you to make a move. He wasn't pushing you to make a decision, wasn't trying to influence your choice. He was simply there, offering you the possibility. 

You brought the cigarette to rest between your lips, your hand steady despite the slight tremor in your stomach. Leaning in closer to the flame, you could feel the heat brushing against your cheeks, a whisper of warmth that contrasted sharply with the cool night air. The flame licked at your face, casting fleeting shadows across your features as you drew in a slow, deliberate breath, all while your eyes remained locked with the boy who seemed like he fell straight out of your dreams. 

The tip of the cigarette glowed bright orange, and for that brief moment, it felt as if the entire world had narrowed down to just that one glowing point. The burn of the tobacco was immediate, the familiar taste bitter and grounding, pulling you back from the despair. As you exhaled, a plume of smoke curled from your lips, twisting and swirling into the night air, hitting Tate's face. 

"Thanks," you murmured, with your voice softer now, almost vulnerable.

In response, Tate's lips curled into a charming grin, the kind that was disarmingly boyish and just a little crooked at the corners. The smile lit up his features just like the flame did, softening the intensity of his gaze and adding a glint of warmth to his doe eyes. It was the kind of smile that made you feel like, despite the darkness and everything else that loomed over your life, there was still something good in the world — something worth holding onto. 

The boy next to you leaned back, resting his elbows on the step behind him, his gaze lifting to the sky where the stars were hidden by a thick layer of dark clouds. "What's on your mind?" he asked the kind of question that didn't need an immediate answer.

He probably already knew what was swirling around in your head — Tate always seemed to know, like he had a sixth sense for the things you tried to keep buried. But still, he asked, giving you the space to say it out loud or let it hang there between the two of you, unspoken.

You sighed, nimble fingers absently rolling the cigarette between them. You tilted your head slightly, catching his profile against the dim light. You never really noticed before but, God, was he pretty. "You ever feel like you're just . . . stuck?" you began, voice soft, as if you were testing the waters. "Like no matter what you do, you're just going through the motions, waiting for something to change but not really believing it ever will?"

Tate's heart skipped a beat. You couldn't possibly know, and yet your question struck so close to the truth of his existence that it took him a moment to respond. He was stuck — stuck in this place, in this time, in this state of being. And you didn't know. You couldn't know. How could you?

For a second, he felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he only felt in your presence. He kept his gaze on the clouds, forcing himself to stay calm, to not let the surprise show in his expression. But his mind was racing, grappling with the irony of your words. You were searching for a way out of your own feeling of being stuck, while he was trapped in a far more literal sense, bound to this house with no escape. 

"Yeah," the boy finally said, his voice softer, almost hesitant, as if weighing the truth he couldn't fully share. "More often than I'd like to admit."

You didn't seem to notice the tension in his voice, the subtle shift in his demeanor. You just nodded, your own thoughts wrapped up in your struggles. "It's like the world's moving on without me, and I'm just . . . here. Stuck in the same place, doing the same things, feeling the same way."

Tate's heart ached with the weight of what he couldn't tell you, the truth that he was stuck in ways you couldn't imagine. But he kept his voice steady, warm. "You're not alone in that," he said, choosing his words carefully. "We're all trying to find our way, even when it feels impossible." He glanced at you, the weight of your words still hanging in the air, and before he could think twice, he reached out and took your hand in his. His fingers wrapped around yours, warm and reassuring, and he began to slowly rub his thumb over your knuckles in small, soothing circles. The roughness of his thumb contrasted with the softness of your skin.

His steady voice broke the silence with softness. "You know," he began, his tone imbued with sincerity, "I'd never let anybody or anything hurt you. Not while I'm here."

Your gaze remained fixed on your joined hands for a moment, absorbing the seriousness and sincerity of Tate's words. The promise in his voice, the gentle assurance of his touch, created a sense of warmth that made the rest of the world seem a little less scary.

Feeling a surge of gratitude and comfort, you shifted closer to him, leaning your head against his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt felt warm against your cheek, and the subtle scent of him — something earthy and faintly comforting — surrounded you with a feeling of home. Tate was your safe place in this filthy and helpless world. 

His body tensed slightly at the unexpected touch, but he quickly relaxed, his arm instinctively moving to drape over your shoulders in a protective gesture. He could feel the gentle weight of your head resting there, and it brought a sense of closeness he hadn't fully realized he needed. The feeling of having you this close was unreal. 

Tate turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing against the top of your head. "You okay?"

You gave him a nod while your warm breath washed against his neck. "Yeah. I just needed this." 

The two of you stayed like that for a while as the world outside seemed to fade away. The night wrapped around you like a blanket, and for a brief, perfect moment, the worries and fears that had clouded your mind disappeared, replaced by the simple, profound comfort of being close to someone who wasn't afraid to show you just how deeply he cared.

[american-horror-whore]

tate langdon x fem!reader drabble

“shh..” Tate whispered softly, his strong arms wrapped around your torso. Your bodies, though intertwined, made a noticeable impression in the mattress as he held you. Tate’s cold lips pressed against the back of your neck, goosebumps tracing their way over your body like a soft breeze. A gentle moonlight casted itself through your window, shining onto you and Tate as if it was a blessing. Tears slipped their way down your cheeks, reminding you of the way you used to watch raindrops race across the windows of your parent’s car when driving through a rainstorm. The only difference? Tate was here to calm the storm.

No one has been there for you like Tate had. No one had been there to comfort you in moments like this as he was doing in that moment. To stifle your sobs, to soothe your worries as if they were a bullet piercing through your stomach. To untangle that dreaded knot in your gut that you were most certain would one day be the death of you.

“I’m here. i’m here with you...” Tate murmured, one hand coming up to brush some hair away from your neck, giving him more skin to kiss as he spooned you tightly.

“No one’s ever gonna hurt you…it’s gonna be alright..” He continued, speaking against the side of your neck. His teeth nipped you softly as his kisses trailed over your skin. In that moment, you finally knew: No one would ever love you like Tate does.

[dippindaz]

Saints, Sinners, and Sleepwalkers | Kit Walker x Reader

Series Masterlist Here

8.3k words

Expect Disturbing Themes

Chapter 1: Curiosity is the First Cut

📄 Briarcliff Records (October, 1961 – Last Updated March, 1962)

Patient Name: [REDACTED] Alias: “Lady Reverie” Date of Admission: October 13th, 1961 Age: Estimated mid-to-late 20s

Recent Addendum – March 2nd, 1962

Staff Observations: Patient demonstrates increased periods of lucidity during waking hours. Fugue states have decreased in frequency, though still present. Shows consistent protective behavior toward fellow patient “Pepper.” Frequently observed intervening when Pepper is distressed or targeted by others. Speech still fragmented. Instances of poetic or metaphorical language remain, but content appears more focused.  Nighttime episodes remain.

Religious Staff Note: Unnatural contortions and trance-like movements continue to be interpreted as signs of possible spiritual unrest. The Chaplain’s previous request for private prayer sessions has been approved by administration and is currently awaiting formal scheduling. Staff advised to document any further episodes of religious speech or behavior. – Schedule with Father Howard by end of month?

Attending Staff: Dr. Arthur Arden Dr. Thredson: Pending evaluation

The air in Sister Jude’s office always smelled faintly of smoke and floor polish. Clinical, but not quite clean. Dr. Oliver Thredson folded his hands neatly in his lap as she spoke, nodding with a tight-lipped expression that suggested agreement, though his mind was already two thoughts ahead.

“She’s not violent,” Jude was saying, thumbing through a thin, dog-eared file. “Not like some of the others. But she’s off. Unsettling.”

“Off?” Thredson echoed politely, already glancing toward the open folder.

“Former sideshow performer. Calls herself Lady Reverie—or did, once. Now she mostly doesn’t talk. Spends most of her time sleepwalking through the halls or twisting herself into a knot under her cot.”

Jude slid the folder toward him.

“She speaks in verse sometimes,” Jude added dryly, lighting a cigarette. “When she speaks at all.”

Thredson scanned the top sheet. Hysteria. Catatonia. Fugue states. A tangle of diagnoses from facilities that probably hadn’t known what to do with her, so they’d passed her along like a cursed relic.

“And yet,” he murmured, mostly to himself, “she still moves.”

He tapped a finger against a line about her nightly contortions. A kind of sleep-dancing. Bodies remembered what the mind forgot. He’d read about cases like this in med school. But none had the strange poetry that trailed behind this one like a ghost.

“She doesn’t cause trouble,” Jude said again, but with that pinched tone she used for anything that bothered her even if it didn’t break the rules. “But she’s magnetic. You’ll see. Other patients are drawn to her like sheep to a wolf with lipstick. That’s the problem.”

Thredson smiled faintly. “Or perhaps… like sheep to a shepherd.”

Jude’s eyes narrowed, cigarette paused just before her lips. “You planning to take a particular interest in her?”

“I plan to observe,” he said smoothly. “That’s all. She’s an intriguing case. And since she’s begun interacting more frequently with the Pinhead girl—”

“Pepper,” Jude corrected, grimacing.

“—Yes. Pepper. Since then, her file notes fewer fugue episodes. That shift alone is worth understanding.”

Jude took a long drag from her cigarette, exhaled toward the window.

“Do what you want,” she muttered. “But don’t come crying to me when she starts climbing the walls and speaking in tongues. Arden says she’s half demon already.”

“Then perhaps it’s time someone asked which half.”

He stood and collected the folder, careful not to show how eager he really was. His fingers itched to open it again. To dissect each phrase. The mind was a map, and she was already presenting the most intriguing detour Briarcliff had offered yet.

Down the hall, the metal doors to Occupational Therapy clicked open.

He would only observe. Quietly. Briefly. Harmlessly.

For now.

They’d put you and Pepper at the same table again. Not out of kindness—just rotation. A shuffle of patients to avoid patterns, they said. But for once, it worked in your favor.

She greeted you with a squeal and a flurry of excited hand-flapping, nearly knocking over the tray of beads the orderly dumped between you. You caught the tray before it spilled, and she beamed like you’d just pulled a rabbit from a hat.

“Twiiirly,” she whispered in sing-song, dragging out the word like it was a secret spell.

You said nothing. Just smiled—small, careful—and nudged a pink bead her way. She gasped, delighted.

It was quiet enough, at first. Just the clink of beads and buttons. The soft rustle of fabric and the faint wheeze of the radiators pushing against another cold morning.

You let yourself watch her. Counted the rhythm of her fingers sorting colors. Matched your breathing to her little hums. She made it easier to be here. She made you easier to be here.

Then something shifted. The sound of shoes—too crisp. Too new. Someone watching.

You didn’t look up right away, but the hairs on your arms prickled. Staff changed often. You didn’t recognize this one.

A clipboard scratched against a sleeve. A murmur between two men. The rustle of papers. You felt it—not like threat, exactly. But like someone testing the weight of a door they might one day unlock.

You moved closer to Pepper. Just a fraction. Her knee bumped yours, and she looked at you with wide, steady trust.

You turned back to the beads. Threaded one. Then another.

Still here. Still with her.

The clink of beads slowed. Across the room, a nurse glanced at her clipboard, then began calling names—one by one, slowly peeling people away like petals off a dying flower.

“Time’s up,” she said flatly. “Sort yourselves out.”

Pepper frowned at her half-finished bracelet, lip wobbling just enough to tug something deep in your chest. You reached over and touched the back of her hand.

“Hey,” you murmured, soft but certain. “We’ll finish it later. I promise.”

Her eyes lifted to yours. You watched her search your face, looking for cracks. You gave her your best smile—even if it didn’t feel like it belonged to you. It worked. She nodded, the way children do when they decide to believe in something.

“No forgetting!”

“I won’t,” you said. “I’m still here, remember?”

She giggled like it was a joke. To her, maybe it was. But around her, you were more awake than you’d ever been since the show disbanded.

You hate it. But you care for her more.

You stood from your chair, offering Pepper one last smile, just as an orderly entered the room. He called your name. You followed without a word, leaving the faint scent of glue and yarn behind. The halls stretched longer than usual, walls tilting ever so slightly inward. Fluorescent lights flickered like they were trying to blink something away.

You didn’t ask where you were going. You never did.

The hydrotherapy room was colder today.

Not by degrees—by feeling. Like the air itself didn’t want you there.

The tub loomed where it always did: claw-footed, rust-kissed, bolted to cracked tiles like an altar made for silence. The water was already waiting—cloudy, off-color. You didn’t want to know what was in it.

The orderly didn’t speak. Just walked you to the tub and began unfastening your gown. The buttons came undone one by one, each tiny pop echoing off the tile like distant thunder. You stared at the grout between floor tiles and tried to stay inside your body.

It didn’t work.

When you stepped out of the gown, you didn’t feel the chill. Your skin did, but you were watching from somewhere behind your own eyes.

Lowered into the tub, your limbs folded like paper. Your back met the basin and the cold climbed in. Restraints clicked shut at your wrists and ankles.

You didn’t fight. You never did.

The water lapped gently at your collarbones. You stared at the ceiling.

Dirt.

Your fingers were in the dirt, kneeling under a sky you couldn’t see. Someone was behind you. Close, but not touching.

"You're always doing that,” a voice said. Soft, amused. Jimmy.

You didn’t turn to look at him. You didn’t need to. You could feel the warmth of him at your back. His presence curled around your shoulders like an old coat.

“Does it mean something?” he asked, crouching beside you.

You shrugged.

“I like it,” he added after a moment. “The circles. Looks like you're making little worlds.”

You traced another loop, slower this time. His hand rested lightly against your spine—warm, grounding. You hadn’t realized how cold you were.

“Maybe I am,” you murmured. You liked the idea of that. Building something. Even if you couldn’t stay in it.

Then the water shifted. Real again. Heavy.

Jimmy was gone.

You were trembling. Bound. Alone.

Your fingers wouldn’t stop twitching.

The restraints came off slower than they went on. The water lapped around your ribs as the orderly muttered something you didn’t hear. You stepped out of the tub, dripping, the floor cold against your feet. He handed you a threadbare towel that didn’t quite reach your knees.

You dried off on instinct. One hand. Then the other. The order in it made your body feel real again.

Your gown was returned to you, slightly damp at the collar. They never waited for you to be fully dry. By the time you were dressed, the chill had settled in your bones.

No words were exchanged. Just a nod. A hand on your back.

The hallway stretched out like something hollowed. You walked it anyway. You always did. Flickering lights. White tile. Turn left, then right.

They didn’t send you back to your room.

“Common room,” the orderly said, jerking his chin toward the double doors.

You didn’t respond. Just walked through them.

The common room was already half-filled. Two patients were locked in a quiet argument by the window. A woman in a fraying nightgown tore pages from a magazine, stacking them neatly on the floor. The same old music playing on repeat.

You looked for Pepper. But you knew she wasn’t here.

You made your way to your usual chair—near the old bookshelf where the encyclopedias were out of order. You sat.

Folded your hands in your lap. Breathed in. Out.

Still damp. Still here.

The low drone of voices filled the room like fog. You let it settle over you. Let it blur the edges just a little—but not too far. Not now. Not yet.

You stared at the rip in your sleeve and counted the stitches until they stopped meaning numbers.

Then switched to counting the flickers of the light above you. Two. Pause. One. Long pause. Then three. You weren’t sure if it had always done that or if you just noticed today.

Then—

Bang.

The hallway door slammed open, loud and fast like it was kicked. You flinched.

A voice—male, raw with panic—echoed in the corridor. “Get your hands off me! I didn’t do anything!”

Footsteps. Two, maybe three sets. Struggling. A thud against the wall. Metal clattered. Someone swore.

You didn’t move. Not really. Just turned your head slightly, like it was someone else’s.

“Another one,” a nurse murmured at the desk.

“Not just anyone,” someone else answered, voice low and tight. “He’s one of them. From the Bloody Face case.”

“No kidding. Thought he’d get the chair.”

“Should’ve. But not yet.”

Their voices drifted off into the rhythm of the day.

The footsteps faded. So did the struggle. A moment later, the common room returned to its usual static rhythm. Cups stacked. Pieces moved. The TV buzzed on.

But something in your chest had changed. Like a key had turned inside you.

Not enough to unlock anything.

But just enough to click.

You looked toward the hallway, where the noise had come from. Nothing there now. Just the closed door.

You didn’t know why it stuck with you.

But it did.

The voices had stopped. The hallway was quiet again. But your thoughts moved differently now—like something had shifted them off their usual tracks. You couldn't name the feeling, exactly. Not fear. Not curiosity. Just… a pressure. A presence. Like someone had walked across your grave and kept going.

Your eyes conveyed your sudden restlessness more than any other part of you. They flitted around the room, as if trying to figure out why your heart was beating a little harder.

Eventually, the bell rang.

Not a real bell—just the old, wheezing chime they used when it was time to shuffle patients from one part of the ward to the next. You’d learned its pitch months ago. Lunch.

Everyone stood in slow ripples. Chairs scraped. Slippers scuffed tile. The usual drift toward the door began.

You stood last.

Not out of rebellion. Just habit.

It gave you time to brush a hand over the carved eye on your chair’s armrest, a ritual you hadn’t bothered to question in weeks. Or maybe months. You weren’t sure.

The hallway was brighter now, though it still hummed too loud. You filed in with the others, trailing just behind a woman who whispered prayers under her breath. You didn’t listen to the words—just the cadence.

Orderlies and nurses led and followed you all to the lunchroom.

Lunch meant noise. Trays. Smells. A hundred kinds of presence pressing down on you at once.

You didn’t mind the blandness of the food anymore. You didn’t taste it, anyway.

Lunch was already halfway served. You sat where you always did—second row from the wall, three seats down from the cart with the chipped plastic utensils.

You didn’t look up when the nurse came by. You didn’t have to. Your tray was always placed in front of you, always the same way—lukewarm, grayish food and a paper cup of water that tasted like rust.

But today—

A pause.

A tray dropped beside yours.

“You’re sitting here,” came the nurse’s voice, brisk, not unkind. Then the tap of her shoes retreating. You felt it before you saw it. The change. A new weight beside you, unfamiliar and too alive.

You looked up.

And there he was.

Someone new.

You didn’t remember most here, but you were sure you’d recognize him.

Messy hair, a scrape darkening on his cheekbone, hands clenched too tight around the edges of his tray like he might bolt or throw it. His eyes met yours.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did you.

Something cracked—just a hairline fracture in the surface of your stillness. Not recognition. Not quite. But a pull.

He opened his mouth, maybe to say something, maybe not.

Nothing came out.

You blinked.

He sat down.

The room carried on around you. Chatter, trays scraping, the clink of plastic forks.

But at your little corner of the table, time hung different.

Something had arrived.

The two of you ate in silence.

You peeled your bread roll slowly, piece by piece, pressing crumbs into your palm without noticing. The man barely touched his food. His spoon clinked once against the bowl of something that used to be soup, then stilled.

He kept glancing your way—quick, uncertain flicks of the eyes, like he wasn’t sure if you were real or just another one of this place’s ghosts.

You didn’t meet his gaze. But you didn’t turn away, either.

A long moment passed.

Then, softly—like he was testing the weight of his own voice—he said, “Is it always so… quiet in here?”

His words surprised you. Not what he said, but that he said anything at all. Like no one had told him you weren’t… you. Maybe he didn’t care. That would change.

You looked up again.

His eyes were tired. But kind.

He waited.

You blinked.

It had been a long time since anyone asked you a question like they expected you to answer. Like you were still someone who did that sort of thing. Did you know how?

Your lips parted. Then closed again. You looked at your tray—at the pale mush congealing at the edges, at your own trembling fingers.

“…Usually,” you said, voice small and grainy, like a sound unused to daylight.

He nodded, like you’d said something important. Like you’d given more than just a word.

He nodded a little, like her answer confirmed something for him.

Then, after a moment spent fiddling with his spoon, he said, “I’m Kit.” Not loud. Not proud. Just simple. Honest. Like maybe he wasn’t sure it would matter.

Your eyes flicked to him again, slower this time.

“…Hi.”

That was all. Just that one syllable. But you met his gaze when you said it.

And it was enough.

He smiled, just barely.

You looked away first.

Not out of shyness—but something closer to habit. The quiet had become armor. And this new voice, this boy with soft eyes and scuffed knuckles, had cracked it just by looking at you like you were still there.

You risked a glance across the room.

Pepper sat hunched over her tray, but her eyes were on you. Not on the food. Not on the noise behind her. On you.

She smiled. Big and goofy and proud—like she’d known this would happen. Like maybe she’d waited for it.

Kit followed your gaze.

“She your friend?” he asked gently.

You gave the tiniest nod.

He smiled. “You always this quiet?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

The truth sat somewhere between the past and whatever you were now. You’d always been quiet, yes. But not like this. Not the kind of quiet that made your voice strange in your own throat. Not the kind that made people forget you were there.

“…I wasn’t,” you said finally.

And that was true enough for now.

Kit didn’t press. Just nodded, like he understood something unsaid.

The rest of lunch passed in soft sounds—metal against trays, the occasional mutter or clatter. You picked at your food, not out of hunger but habit. He did the same, though he seemed more focused on you than the plate in front of him.

You didn’t speak again.

But you didn’t leave the table either.

For now, that felt like something.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t heavy. If anything, it felt… okay..

You took another bite of whatever passed for lunch. Warm, beige, unmemorable. He did the same. The clatter and clink of trays filled the space around you, but in your corner, the world felt muffled.

Then—

A hand closed around your upper arm. Not hard, not cruel—but firm. Familiar.

An orderly. Already turning you away from the table before he spoke.

“Time to go.”

No name. No explanation. No need.

You didn’t resist. You never did.

The spoon slipped from your hand with a quiet clink against plastic as you rose, letting yourself be steered out of the cafeteria.

You didn’t look back.

But you could feel them.

Pepper’s worry. Kit’s confusion.

Their eyes followed you out the lunchroom.

The hallway to Arden’s lab always felt colder than the others. Colder than hydrotherapy, even. Not the biting cold of water—but dry, bone-humming cold, like the air didn’t want to be breathed.

The orderly said nothing as he guided you through the narrow corridor. You knew the path by heart: left at the supply closet, past the small window covered in wire mesh, take a right, down two more doors and—

There.

The one with no label. Just a thin slit of light beneath it.

The orderly knocked once, didn’t wait for an answer, and opened the door.

Inside, it smelled of iron and rubbing alcohol. Too clean, in a way that made your stomach twist. Nothing ever smelled like that unless something wrong had happened—and been wiped away.

Dr. Arden stood at the far end of the room, already in his coat, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. He didn’t look up right away. He never did.

“Leave her,” he said.

The orderly let go of your arm. The door clicked shut behind you.

You stood there. Still.

Arden glanced at you finally. His eyes were pale, washed out, like something left too long in the sun. He wrote something on a clipboard without speaking, then motioned toward the exam chair in the center of the room.

You walked.

The exam chair was hard. Cold. Designed more for compliance than comfort. The light above you buzzed faintly, flickering at the edges. Arden circled behind you, and for a moment, the only sound was the rustle of paper and the metallic squeak of his instruments.

He began his routine.

Blood pressure. Pupil dilation. Reflexes. Cold metal pressing against your skin.

His hands were always precise. Too careful. He touched you like you were a machine—one he didn’t trust, but was obsessed with keeping in working order. You learned not to flinch.

“You’ve been more alert lately,” he said, voice neutral. “More present.”

He tapped the edge of your knee. Your leg twitched.

“And yet, the dissociative episodes continue.”

He didn’t ask. He never asked. Just wrote.

Something clinked into a tray behind you.

“How fortunate,” he murmured. “To study such phenomena in real time.”

He adjusted the angle of your head.

“And your flexibility—still intact, I assume?”

You said nothing.

He smiled—just barely. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’ll show me, of course.”

He said it like fact.

Like order.

The silence stretched thin and sharp between you, vibrating like wire.

You didn’t blink. Still here.

But shrinking, inside yourself.

Like a knot pulled tighter, tighter, tighter.

Arden turned away again, scribbling. Something about the way he moved made you feel smaller. Dissected.

He hadn’t touched you improperly. Not today. Not yet. But he looked at you like he was waiting for permission. Or for the rules to change.

They always changed here.

Eventually.

Arden set his clipboard aside. “Stand.”

You obey.

With clinical slowness, he stepped behind you once more. You heard the snap of gloves. The slide of a drawer.

Then the rustle of fabric.

Your gown.

His fingers were at the back, unfastening the buttons one by one. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just methodical.

“You’ll be cooperative,” he said quietly. Not a threat. Not a request. Just… truth, as he saw it.

The gown slipped from your shoulders. Cold air touched your spine like ice. You had never been more grateful for the cotton underwear given to you by the asylum.

“You’ve done this before,” he added. “Hundreds of times, if I had to guess.”

He guided your arm upward, not roughly, but firmly—stretching it behind your head, elbow bent at a sharp angle.

“Hold.”

You did.

His hand adjusted your wrist with the kind of care one might use for taxidermy. Fingers precisely positioned. Palm facing the ceiling. He circled you, pausing to examine the lines your body made.

Click.

A camera. Somewhere behind you. No flash. Just the heavy mechanical sound of the shutter.

He didn’t tell you he was going to take a picture.

He didn’t tell you anything.

“You’ve trained your body to obey,” he said absently, scribbling something down. “Even when your mind��� detaches.”

He tilted your chin next. Pulled the opposite arm forward. Bent it across your stomach in a shape you recognized from your old acts. One of the more graceful ones.

You held the position. Not for him. For survival.

Click.

You stared at the ceiling. Counted the cracks. The stains in the paint. Pretended your body was only light and muscle. A shadow someone else was wearing.

“Backbend,” he said simply.

You hesitated—only a fraction.

A mistake.

His fingers wrapped your bicep. Not cruel, but possessive. Steady.

“You’re not here to perform,” he said, his voice dipping. “You’re here to be studied. And I expect consistency.”

Your breath caught as you shifted. Let yourself fold backward. Spine curved. Chest stretched open.

Vulnerable.

Click.

Click.

You stared upside-down at the far wall, heart climbing your throat.

Arden moved closer.

You felt the shape of his gaze—how it narrowed, intensified. How it settled at your sternum like a weight.

“Fascinating,” he muttered. “Even now… the body remembers.”

A touch—flat, clinical, palm to your ribs. He counted your breaths. Said nothing as you trembled.

Still here. Still here. Still here.

But the knot inside you pulled tighter.

And his hand didn’t move.

Arden’s hand trailed lower.

Not hurried. Not hesitant.

From your ribs, down the line of your waist, across your hip. Gloved fingers pressing into the muscle—not groping, but measuring. As if your body were an anatomical model he’d memorized long ago and was now checking for inconsistencies.

He stopped at your thigh.

“Too tense,” he muttered.

His hand adjusted your leg—lifted and rotated it outward, forcing your pelvis to tilt with the movement. Then the other. Folding you inward now, one knee drawn up, one stretched behind, your spine curving into a twist.

A contortionist’s pose.

One you hadn’t used in years.

Click.

The sound made you flinch.

He didn’t notice. Or he didn’t care.

“Muscle memory is remarkable,” he said, more to himself than to you. “It outlasts the mind. Outlasts trauma. Even obedience can be learned in the tissue.”

He stepped back again, examining you like a specimen pinned beneath glass. Something in his expression flickered—not quite desire. Not admiration. Something colder. Sharper.

Something hungry.

“You’ve always made yourself small,” he murmured. “Even now. Tucked into yourself like a prayer.”

He crouched beside you, adjusting the angle of your wrist again. His face too close. His breath smelled like old metal and antiseptic.

“Tell me,” he said softly, as he reached to place your chin just so. “Do you even remember why you do this?”

Click.

The silence after the shutter was deafening.

The final click echoed through the room.

And then—nothing.

Just the hum of the overhead light. The shallow rasp of your own breathing. The drag of Arden’s shoes against the linoleum as he moved back to his tray.

Without the shutter snapping you back, the world started to tilt.

Colors dulled. The cold beneath you seeped deeper into your skin, heavy and anchorless. The sharp edge of awareness—the one you fought to keep—wavered like a candle about to gutter out.

Arden’s voice slipped around you, muffled at the edges.

“Fascinating,” he said, almost tenderly. "The body's betrayal of the mind. The mind's betrayal of itself."

His words were shapes you barely recognized.

Your body stayed folded where he had put it, obedient even in absence.

You felt his hand reposition your arm again—soft, impersonal. Heard the scratch of pen against paper. Distant. Harmless.

You weren't here anymore, not fully.

Not in this room. Not in this body.

Somewhere safer. Somewhere quieter.

Somewhere he couldn’t reach.

At least for now.

You drifted.

No time. No place. No you.

When the world stitched itself back together, you were standing.

The rough brush of hands tugged at your gown—rebuttoning, fixing. An orderly’s hands, not Arden’s. The metal tray and instruments blurred into the edges of your vision.

“Move along.” The orderly muttered.

Your legs obeyed before you understood the command. Out the door, into the hall, the cold trailing you like smoke.

Somewhere above, thunder grumbled low across the ceiling. The storm had rolled in.

No outdoor time today.

The halls veered left instead of right, leading you back toward the common room.

The common room smelled like bleach and wet wool.

The orderly shoved you inside without ceremony. You stumbled a step, caught yourself, and blinked against the low gray light.

First thing—you looked for Pepper. You always did.

But the corner where she usually sat was empty. No hunched figure, no wild hands playing with whatever they grabbed first. Just a scuffed floor and a humming radiator.

You drifted toward the old bookshelf instead.

You didn’t remember sitting. One moment you were moving, the next, the cracked vinyl chair creaked under you. Your fingers brushed the armrests out of habit, tracing the worn edge where the material had split open years ago.

The music looped, faint and staticky, from the record player shoved against the far wall. The same song that always played. You didn’t remember what it was about, if you ever even knew. It blended into the background long ago.

You stared at the dust haloed around your shoes.

The door creaked again.

Someone new. A shuffle of boots and cuffs and a sharp, questioning voice. A familiar one. Kit.

You didn’t look up—not yet—but you felt him move across the room, a different rhythm than the others. Less slouched. Less beaten.

He headed straight for the record player.

You recognized the mistake before he even touched it.

You shifted, your body moving on reflex, a flicker of urgency stirring in your gut.

You started to rise—

But someone else was faster.

A woman—sharp, pale, her brown hair messy like she hadn't stopped moving for days—cut across the room and caught his wrist just before he could reach the needle.

Her voice was low, fierce, too fast for you to catch the words.

Kit jerked back, confused, but didn’t fight her.

You sank back down before you even realized you’d stood at all.

The record spun on. Outside, the thunder was getting just a touch louder.

You tried not to look. You really did. Your gaze was supposed to stay fixed, empty, the way you’d trained it to. The way you needed it to. But your eyes slid sideways anyway. Drawn to the scene across the room like a moth to a slow-burning flame.

The girl—you knew her, but you couldn’t remember her name—was speaking low and fast. You couldn’t hear all of it over the hum of the record, but you caught the shape of her urgency. Warnings, probably. Maybe an apology tucked inside it.

Kit leaned in, frowning, his hands half-lifted like he didn’t quite know whether to argue or surrender.

There was something strange about him. Not the way most of them were strange, cracked and hollow from the inside out. Something… newer. Rough-edged. Not worn down yet.

You dropped your gaze back to your lap. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t your business. Nothing here was.

But still—

Still—you found yourself glancing back, quick and secret, just once more.

Kit was nodding now, slowly, like he understood whatever Grace had said. His shoulders, still tense, dropped a little. He shifted awkwardly, scanning the room like he was trying to find somewhere he wouldn't be swallowed whole.

And just for a moment… his eyes caught yours.

You froze.

It was only a second. Maybe less. You looked away first, your heart ticking louder in your ribs than it should have.

It didn’t mean anything. He was new. He was looking at everything.

You pressed your palms flat against your thighs, grounding yourself in the sharp, worn texture of the chair’s fabric. Waiting for the minutes to bleed into each other again.

The storm moved closer. You could feel it. Like a slow, gathering pressure in the walls.  A low rumble shivered through the floor under your feet. The old building groaned with it, every window rattling faintly in its frame.

You held your breath without meaning to. Somewhere deep inside, some old instinct warned: Brace yourself.

The next crash came without warning— A crack of thunder so loud it rattled the cheap light fixtures overhead, peeling a scream from one of the patients across the room. She shot up from her chair, wailing, hands flailing wildly at nothing.

The music crackled on in the background, cheerful and tinny and wrong. A nurse shouted something. Two orderlies crossed the room in five long strides, closing in on the woman.

You flinched when the chair she kicked over clattered hard against the floor.

Kit looked up too—half-standing from his seat like he wasn’t sure whether to help or stay out of the way. The woman touched his arm and said something under her breath, firm and quick, and he sank back down reluctantly.

The woman’s screams pitched higher. Another crash of thunder. You squeezed your hands into fists in your lap to keep them from trembling.

The orderlies grabbed her roughly, dragging her struggling toward the door. One of her shoes came off in the scuffle, spinning across the floor before slapping to a stop near the old piano.

The common room felt bigger and emptier when they were gone. Everyone pretending not to notice. Everyone shrinking inward.

You stayed still. Small.  Ears pricked to the sound of the girl speaking in low tones to Kit. You didn't mean to listen. But your mind clung to noise, lately, like it was a rope keeping you tethered to the world. You weren’t sure why. You weren’t sure you wanted to know why.

“Don’t bother,” She was saying, her voice crisp and dry. “You’ll get used to it. Or you’ll stop caring. One or the other.”

Kit murmured something you couldn’t catch. You heard the scrape of his chair shifting against the floor. When you dared a glance, quick and careful, you caught him looking back at you.

Not at her. At you.

The look wasn’t sharp or mocking, the way new arrivals sometimes were. It was curious. Quiet. Like he was trying to understand something he didn’t have words for yet.

Your breath hitched, barely. A tiny jolt under your ribs. You dropped your gaze fast, hands knotting tighter in your lap.

She didn’t seem to notice. She just kept talking, something about the storm, about the routine here, about surviving.

You stared hard at the floorboards. But a part of you—the part that hadn't been completely crushed down yet—still felt Kit’s gaze. Still flickering and uncertain, like a flame struggling in a storm.

The storm outside rumbled again, rattling the old windows in their frames. You barely noticed the sound now, too focused on not focusing, trying to blend into the worn fabric of the chair. Kit and the woman’s voices blurred into the low drone of the common room’s usual noise.

Then—A sudden scuffle of footsteps near the door.

You turned your head automatically.

Pepper.

She was being herded into the room by an orderly, but the moment they let her go, she lit up like a lamp. Without hesitation, she beelined across the common room, weaving past shuffling bodies and sagging couches.

Straight to you.

No words. No questions. She simply plopped herself down at your side, so close her shoulder brushed yours. Like she’d been there the whole time. Like nothing bad could ever touch you while she sat guard.

You blinked, feeling the faintest, strangest flutter in your chest. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

Pepper smiled wide, a little crooked from the missing teeth she still hadn't stopped being proud of. She tucked herself even closer, humming something low under her breath—a half-forgotten tune from another life.

Across the room, you caught Kit looking again. Not staring. Not rude. Just... noticing.

You glanced away first.

Pepper leaned her head against your arm, humming for a moment longer before she spoke—soft and sing-song, like sharing a secret with a doll. “You talked at lunch,” she said, her voice tilting up like a question even though it wasn’t one. “Talked to the new boy.”

You stiffened slightly, but Pepper only giggled quietly, like it was funny.

“Not scared,” she added, patting your hand once with her small, worn fingers. “Good.”

Her smile stretched wide again, proud in that way only Pepper could be—proud of you for doing something as simple as answering a few questions.

You always believed Pepper was more perceptive than she let on, knew more than she let toner believe. This was definitely sinking a nail in that coffin.

The thought tightened something low in your chest.

It had felt like nothing at the time. A few words, a breath of conversation. But to Pepper, it was a lighthouse flickering on in the dark. A sign you were still in there somewhere, even if you barely recognized yourself most days.

You didn't know if that made you feel lighter or heavier.

Pepper curled closer, content just to be near you. Her trust was something you hadn’t earned lately, not really—but she gave it to you anyway, same as she always had. Unconditional.

You kept your gaze forward, trying to ignore the prickle behind your eyes. Trying to ignore the way Kit’s voice still echoed faintly across the room, low and warm, even if it wasn’t meant for you anymore.

The afternoon stretched on, heavy and slow. The record player hiccupped in its endless loop of warped music, thunder grumbling low against the walls.

You stayed still. So did Pepper, her head nodding drowsily against your shoulder, her small fingers absently twisting the edge of your sleeve.

Across the room, Kit had stopped talking with that woman. The newness of his arrival clung to him—awkward, restless. But he stayed where he was, tossing glances now and then like he was still figuring out the rules. He was.

Maybe you were, too.

A crash of thunder rattled the windows again. Somewhere near the stairwell, a patient shrieked—a high, broken sound—and the orderlies moved fast, their heavy steps pounding toward the noise.

You didn’t flinch. Neither did Pepper.

It wasn’t your business. It never was.

The hands of the old clock ticked forward, scraping toward the next hour.

Soon enough, a pair of orderlies appeared at the threshold. One of them jerked his chin at you—impatient, bored. You recognized the signal. Pepper stirred beside you but didn’t fight when you untangled from her. She just watched, wide-eyed, hugging herself as you stood.

The orderlies didn’t bother with words. They didn’t have to. You were expected to follow, and you did.

One last glance at the common room: Pepper’s small figure tucked against the window, Kit’s curious gaze lingering from across the room. You lowered your eyes and turned away.

The hallway beyond felt heavier somehow. Observation. Thirty minutes of being watched through glass you couldn’t see behind, locked alone with yourself and the hum of your own blood in your ears. They said it was for your safety.

They always said that.

The door clanged shut behind you. Heavy and final.

The observation room was empty except for a metal chair bolted to the floor. No windows. Only a dull grate whispering stale air into the corners. Somewhere beyond the mirrored glass, you knew they were watching.

You sat where you always sat: cross-legged on the ground, hands folded in your lap.

Good.

Obedient.

Easy to leave alone.

The storm still grumbled through the bones of the building, low and constant. But in here, it might as well have been a whole other world. You let your mind drift. It was easy. Too easy. Like a scab you’d been trained not to pick, but your fingers knew the motion by heart. The walls blurred. The hum of Briarcliff’s old veins faded.

Something else crept in.

Wooden floorboards. The smell of sweat and greasepaint. A canvas tent breathing heavy in the night air.

In a shadowed corner backstage at the freak show. You were small again, curled against a crate, heart hammering against your ribs.

Voices echoed, angry and slurred:

"—goddamn useless, you hear me—"

A thud.

A sharp grunt.

The crack of knuckles on bone.

You tried to press yourself smaller, invisible, but you saw it anyway— Dell towering over Jimmy, his fists wild, red blooming across Jimmy’s cheek.

You didn’t remember why. You only knew it happened. It always happened.

Your hands clenched against your skirt. Your breath snagged in your throat. You wanted to move. To help. But you were too scared. Too useless.

Like always.

The memory buckled, tearing itself in half—and you slammed back into yourself.

Observation room. Briarcliff. Now.

You gasped without sound, chest heaving once, twice. Your gown clung damp to your back. You stared at your hands, trembling and raw, and you knew with a cold, alien certainty:

You hadn’t remembered that before. But it wasn’t new. It wasn’t a lie.

It was real. And it had always been waiting.

The door creaked open without ceremony.

An orderly’s shadow filled the frame. You rose without being told, feet silent against the floor. Your body moved on muscle memory alone—out into the hall, down past the peeling walls, toward the dining area where the faint smell of boiled potatoes and burnt meat clung to the air.

Dinner. Another piece of the clockwork routine.

The room buzzed with low, unfocused noise—cutlery scraping metal trays, murmured arguments too slurred to matter. You slipped into your usual seat at the end of the row, back to the wall. A habit, not a comfort.

A tray clattered beside yours. The same as lunch.

You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The air shifted. Lighter. Less... heavy.

Still, you glanced. Still, there he was.

Kit.

He looked better than he had earlier—less rattled, but still frayed at the edges. His hair was damp, like he’d been shoved through a rushed cleanup. His tray held the same sad helping of food as yours: gray meatloaf, a few limp peas, mashed potatoes that looked more like paste.

For a minute, neither of you spoke. The clatter and hum of the cafeteria filled the space between.

You pushed your peas into a corner of the tray with the edge of your fork, not really tasting the food.

Kit tapped his fork once against his tray. Not loud. Just enough to get your attention without pulling it. "Hey," he said, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

You glanced at him, wary. Not because it was him. Because you were used to silence meaning safety. Talking got you noticed. Getting noticed got you hurt.

But Kit didn’t seem dangerous. He looked tired. Frayed around the edges in a way you recognized too well.

"Grace said you been here a while," he said, quieter now. His accent softened the words, rounded them out like river stones. "Long enough to know how this place runs."

You blinked. Your fork paused halfway to your mouth. They talked about… you?

He gave a little shrug, almost sheepish. "Figure I oughta stick close to someone who’s survived it."

Something stirred in your chest. Not quite warmth. Not quite trust. Something more like... the first flutter of movement after being frozen too long.

You forced yourself to look back down at your tray. "I don’t talk much," you said—barely a whisper, barely more than truth.

Kit huffed out a soft laugh through his nose, like he wasn’t offended. Like he understood. "That’s alright," he said. "I talk enough for the both of us."

The words slid into you like a needle. Small. Sharp.  Unstoppable.

For a heartbeat, you weren't sitting in the Briarcliff cafeteria. You were somewhere else—somewhere warmer, dimmer. A canvas tent lit by bare bulbs. The smell of sawdust and smoke.

And him.

Jimmy, flashing that lopsided grin you’d always pretended not to love, teasing you the same way. "‘S'okay, doll. I talk enough for the both of us." His voice, roughened by laughter and cigarettes and hope.

It hit so fast you barely had time to register it. A blink. A flicker. Gone.

You sucked in a slow breath through your nose, grounding yourself back into the present—the sour stink of mashed potatoes, the buzz of the fluorescents, the low rumble of thunder outside.

Your hands had clenched tight around your fork without you realizing. Kit didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t push.  He just sat there beside you, easy and quiet.

Like he wasn’t in any rush to figure you out.

Another crack of thunder rattled the windows high above. Neither of you flinched. You were already used to worse.

He scooped up some mashed potatoes, made a face, and put the fork back down. "Jesus," he muttered, "what is this?"

A twitch almost—almost—tugged at your mouth. Not quite a smile. Something broken and half-remembered.

Kit caught it. You knew he did, because he smiled a little in return.  Not the smile you were used to seeing from people here.  Not the kind that meant danger. Just... tired and human.

For a few minutes, you ate in silence. Side by side. A strange kind of peace, fragile as spun glass.

The clock above the door ticked louder with every second. Each beat chipped away at the fragile bubble you sat inside, reminding you that nothing here stayed soft for long.

Around you, the cafeteria thinned. Trays scraped over metal counters, chairs scraped back. The heavy shuffle of bodies herded toward the next part of the night—the part where everything got quieter, darker, harder. Orderlies clearing out patients group by group.

Lights out.

An orderly’s bark echoed down the hall, sharp enough to make a few heads jerk up.

You rose when Kit did, a second behind him, moving like a shadow. His tray clattered onto the return cart. Yours followed. No words. Just motion.

You could feel Kit glance back once as you trailed behind the line of patients, could feel the quiet question of it—like maybe he wasn’t ready to let the thin thread of something between you snap just yet.

You kept your eyes on the floor.

The halls narrowed the deeper you went, swallowing the noise until there was only the thunder rumbling overhead and the scuff of slippered feet against cracked tile.

Your room was the same as always. A bed, grey sheets, and a window barred and curtained against the storm. The stale air clung to your skin, heavy with old fear.

The orderly gave a grunted order you barely heard. You moved on instinct, letting them shove some pills into your mouth before climbing into your bed, turning your face toward the wall. Fabric rustled around you as the others settled. A final flicker of light as the overheads snapped off.

Darkness.

You fall into your routine with ease. Reciting your names as you tap. Three quick taps. Break.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Elsa.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Ma Petite.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Paul.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Ethel.

Tap.  Tap. Tap. Eve.

Tap Tap Tap. Desiree.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Pepper.

Tap. Tap. Tap. A pause. A breath held too long.

"Jimmy—"

Your fingers froze mid-tap. The word hung there, raw and unfinished, like an open wound.

The air shifted.  The thin mattress beneath you seemed to heave once, then settle wrong, off-balance. The walls bled out at the edges, gray smearing into black. Your hand, still poised in the air, forgot gravity.

Something inside you slipped.

And you were falling.

The floor was rough under your knees.  The air smelled like whiskey and sweat and old anger. You were crouched in front of him.

Jimmy.

His lip was split, the blood already drying rusty at the corner of his mouth.  A bruise was blooming across his cheekbone, ugly and deep purple. One of his hands cradled his ribs, careful like they were broken.

You held a damp cloth in shaking fingers, dabbing gently at his face. Your other hand kept fluttering, unsure whether to touch his hair, his arm, something steadier. He was breathing hard—half from pain, half from rage he couldn't spit out yet.

"You gotta just..." Your voice barely rose above a whisper. "You gotta just let things go sometimes, Jimmy."

The cloth slipped from your hand. He caught your wrist—gently—and gave it a squeeze.

His eyes were glassy, wet at the edges, furious and hurting and helpless all at once. "When he's yellin' at you," he rasped, "I'm never lettin' it go."

Your breath caught. Something twisted sharp and sweet behind your ribs.

He meant it. He always meant it.

The world around you blurred again, the walls bleeding back to grey, the ground tilting—and you felt yourself slipping, the memory clinging like cobwebs to your skin.

The mattress pressed cold against your palms. You blinked hard. Once. Twice. The constant Briarcliff white noise The sour smell of bleach. The rattling pipes. The heavy dark of night pressing against the barred windows.

You were lying on your side. Hands curled close to your chest. Breathing shallow, like you’d been running.

Your cheeks were damp. You touched your face with clumsy fingers—salt and heat.  Tears. You hadn’t even felt them fall.

The memory still clung to you, half-faded but sharp enough to bleed.

Jimmy.  The fight. Dell’s fists. The shouting you couldn’t hear.

And you—there but not there.

You remembered now. You'd drifted. In the middle of it all, you had slipped away. Your body had stayed, frozen and helpless, while your mind fled somewhere safer.  That’s why you hadn’t remembered.  Not because it wasn’t important. Because it had been too much.

You shut your eyes tight, trying to hold the pieces together.

Outside your door, a nurse’s heels clicked against the tile. The night rolled on, indifferent.

You curled tighter into yourself, whispering old names against the noise.

Trying to stay here. Trying to stay you.

[taintandviolent]

Tate Langdon with a slapping kink. I always age him up too 👀

written to this. [disclaimer: tw: slapping. also: aged up Tate who died as a college student instead, adult reader.]

"Slap me."

Your words landed like a ton of bricks. In the muffled quietness of your room, the silence was defeaning. At first, his black pools just focused on you, sweeping back and forth over your face, trying to find the joke, the laugh, the mockery. He hated being made fun of, and if you somehow guessed his slapping kink... only to use it against him...

"I said slap me, Tate."

He tapped your cheek, a poor excuse for a slap. It was laced with uncertainty.

"Harder."

He did. But it wasn't hard enough. You reached forward, slapping at his erection. Your fingertips grazed just below the head, but you'd made contact. You'd argue that it was a playful slap, but the way his hips bucked at the sensation, a woeful whimper bubbling up from his throat told you otherwise.

"Harder," you said.

Tate reared his hand, backhanding you. Your head flew to the side; your cheek and flips instantly aflame with contact. Tate's cock twitched at the way your cheek instantly reddened, a dirty, lustful sort of blush spreading down your neck.

Your lips tightened, holding back a deep moan.

"Again."

[fbfh]

hii <3 have you seen ahs? if so, any thoughts about Tate Langdon? 😔 i’m so down bad

ohhhhh honey I understand your pain. you absoLUTELY came to the right bitch for this one. Tate has a serious, deeply psychological and sexual obsession with you. you're all he talks about in his therapy sessions, you're all he thinks about when he's lying awake at night listening to nirvana and wishing he could sleep. he thinks about the way your skin smells, the way your eyes crinkle when you smile. and he just loves making Ben uncomfortable by talking about all the ways he fantasizes about you, the stuff he thinks of doing to you, the way he jerks off all the fucking time - I'm talking several times a day every day - thinking about you. Extra bonus points if you're a Harmon, and he can make Ben even MORE uncomfy. If he were alive, Tate would live and breathe for you. But since that ship has sailed, he thinks existing for you, haunting these walls and watching you every second of every day like a needy dog. Tate will go into your closet and sniff your clothes, clean or dirty, just to smell the scent of your skin and perfume or cologne. when I say he's down bad, I mean he's down BAD. don't be surprised if you enter your bedroom at any point and find him with one of your shirts or a pair of your underwear pressed up against your face while he ruts into your pillows or mattress. he will just be whining and maybe crying a little while he moans your name over and over, needing you more than he's ever needed anything. and obviously with this level of devotion, say a BIGASS prayer for anyone who messes with you, because god knows they'll need it.

[yandereunsolved]

-‘๑’- Yandere Tate Langdon -‘๑’-

cw(s): murder and gaslighting

"You killed him, Tate! He's dead! My best friend is dead!"

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'M SORRY! I didn't mean it. Didn't mean to. I swear. I thought—"

"Sorry doesn't cut it."

"You're right. I don't deserve you. I don't deserve your love. I don't deserve your sweet nothings or your honeyed lips. I deserve to die again. I deserve a worth death. I should... go away."

"Wait, Tate."

"No, no, I deserve this! I'm a freak. Just like all the kids used to call me at school. Just like momma said. They were right."

"Don't say that, baby. Don't say that about yourself."

"N-No... No one loves me."

"I love you."

"You still love a pathetic freak like me?"

"... Yes. Forever. Like I promised."

[laura-palmers-diary]

PUHLEASEEE send me requests for fanfics!! i wanna get back into writing and my inbox is open, i mainly write for dale cooper but also tate langdon/any evan peters in ahs, most jake gyllenhaal characters, tyler durden, rodrick heffley, patrick verona, and billy and stu from scream are very welcome <3

[wcnderlnds]

“Ghost stories? Don’t mind if I do.” - Tate

BLESS, ANON. I love me some Tate (i cant write him for shit but 😭) so here you go. halloween / fall drabbles with prompts from here. feel free to request any <3

Sat in the circle with all your friends, you swished around the cup in your hand, the cool liquid inside almost spilling out over the edge. The last place you wanted to be was in your own basement telling stupid ghost stories on Halloween but alas everyone had heard the stories of the infamous murder house (which you were now unfortunate enough to live in) and thought it'd be the perfect place to make fun of ghosts and ghouls. You, however, weren't amused. Taunting the supernatural never ended well for anyone. Had Buzzfeed Unsolved taught these people nothing? All you wanted was to spend some time with you boyfriend. Tate was supposed to have been taking you out tonight but plans had changed last minute -- on your end, not his. Tate hadn't taken it well at all taking it as a slight against him, like you were rejecting him. That wasn't the case. For goodness sake, you were crazy about the doe eyed, blonde haired boy. You'd even invited him to come hang with you and your friends but he had disappeared instead.

A heavy sigh passed your lips, your gaze focused on your drink. It wasn't until you felt a familiar arm drape around your shoulder and a body squeezing in to sit beside you. When you looked up you came face to face with a smiling Tate. How was it he could go from being in the foulest mood to being the happiest guy on the planet? Where the hell did he even come from anyway?

"We tellin' ghost stories? Don't mind if I do. Got some real killer ones for you." Tate grinned wickedly, regaling all the tales of the apparent ghosts that lived in the house. He was met with 'oohs' and a couple of 'shut up's. You leaned back on your hands, taking a big swig of your drink -- Tate had told you all these before so you didn't need to listen to them again.

Eventually, the whole 'telling ghost stories' thing got old, your friends deciding to head back up to the party upstairs. Once they were gone, you turned to Tate, a brow raised in question. "Thought you were mad at me."

"I could never be mad at you," he looked mildly offeneded you'd even think such a thing. Hadn't all he ever done was show you how much he loved you?" I was upset. I thought you were trying to get rid of me. That you were ditching me to hang out with those people. They're all assholes, by the way," Tate said. It didn't shock you. He had never been fond of any of your friends whenever you talked about them. His hand gently rested on your thigh giving it a light squeeze. "I just wanted to spend time with you and only you, babe." She frowned. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I just... find it hard to say no to them."

His fingers played with the hem of your shirt, the fabric soft against his skin. Fingertips danced across the bare skin of your side sending shivers down your spine. It was ridiculous how easily you turned to putty in his hands by just a simple touch. "I know. They don't care about you like I do. Nobody ever will." Tate nuzzled his face into your neck, pressing light kisses against your soft skin. Little did you know the extremes he'd eventually go to to prove that to you.

[honeyinthesummer]

HYPOTHETICALS — evan peters.

warnings: no use of y/n, reader is female, edited version. word count: 918

SUMMARY: In your next scene, you get to sing what seems to be your personal favorite song. However, everyone in the set wonders as to whether it's just some passionate singing or a not-so-subtle attempt to let some unresolved feelings show.

"Okay, great. Let's do it that way!" The director yells as she heads back behind the camera.

Your assistant tries to tighten your ponytail, every curled strand of your hair tucked nicely. Another tries to smooth some creases in your red halter dress while someone else tries to adjust the top and present some cleavage perfectly.

"I've been playing out a lot of hypotheticals in my mind," You start singing, "I've been writing your name down next to mine. been imagining all the things you and I could do." You begin swaying in place, finding a rhythm, acting as if you're holding a mic.

"I've seen all the possibilities in my dreams. You're alone when you should really be next to me. Baby, let's not wait and see." You sing the last few words a bit high, trying to playfully annoy your assistants, who are finalizing your look.

Even though you're more than ready to belt your favorite song now, the set is to be finished. Lights are still adjusted, the extras are chitchatting while getting into place, and a team is trying to fix the technicalities by the platform in the middle of the bar you're supposed to perform on in a moment. But despite the business of the crowd, your eyes find and set on him, only him.

He's sitting by the table adjacent to the stage, going over the lines with a cast member. You take in the sight of him, particularly those soft brown curls you've always adored and dreamt of having your hand run through. You'd hear his voice even a few meters away and see how he occasionally adjusts his attire as he goes in fits of laughter.

A crew member hands you the mic, which is meant for some test, but you have another idea in mind.

"Obviously, we're at the beginning of something." You start singing while looking at him despite having his back against you. "I don't expect you to know how it's gonna go. But I believe we might be onto something, and I just thought maybe you should know." The crew politely tries to take the mic from you, assuming that the mic test does the job, but you shy away and try walking around the set.

You start singing the chorus, hearing your assistants laugh and call you to return the microphone to the poor crew member. From your peripheral, you see a technical team member up the sound system's volume and take that as a sign.

"Immediate action is unnecessary, it's a fatal attraction, it's a little scary. But I got a plan of attack and I'll get us there someday soon, I know it. I got a plan A and I got a plan B. And if it's absolutely necessary, we'll go to plan C. Whatever I gotta do to be with you."

You're now by the stage, taking in position, seeing everyone from where you are, seeing how he looks at you and how his attention is on you. How a side of his lips is up in a smile and seeing how he's got interest in his eyes. A beat before the chorus, you glanced at him, trying to make it a bit obvious by making it a split second longer, but then shifting your focus to the crowd as you began to sing the chorus.

"I've been playing out a lot of hypotheticals in my mind. I've been writing your name down next to mine." This time, passion and love are undeniably present in your voice. You start swaying and dancing in place, giving a smile to encourage the people, and you see Taissa beside the director, laughing at your antics because she knows a bit too much.

"Been imagining all the things you and I could do." This time, your attention is back on Evan, the way his is on you, too. He hides the lower half of his face behind his fist as his elbow is on the table, but his smile is too big as he slowly sways left and right, now immersed in your song.

"I've seen all the possibilities in my dreams. You're alone when you should really be next to me. Baby, let's not wait and see." Your singing now ends, the people clapping for your impromptu yet wonderful performance, but in those seconds you're singing those lines, you were looking at him. At first, it's like a jamming session. He nods at times, maybe in awe of your satisfying voice. But when you stopped singing and your eyes set on him meaningfully, you noticed how he was still for a second, and the look in Evan's eyes changed suspiciously.

Bitch stop staring, you thought to yourself as you tried to divert your attention away from him. Despite feeling courage out of nowhere, the anxiety that he would realize comes soon after. Trying to brush it off, you playfully did a bow as the people cheered and whistled. You find your assistants rolling their eyes at what you did as, like Taissa, they know a bit too much.

"Girl, you're fucking obvious, but I need that energy once we roll. Okay?" The director speaking into a mic brought you back to reality. A warm feeling gushes to your cheeks, hoping the spotlight focused on you wouldn't make it obvious. What your director said made you go back to reality, to work mode, and how everyone on set has probably caught on to what you're doing.

part two! ( come inside of my heart )

[fear-is-truth]

Heyo Bestie I’m back and I’ve got thots!

I think cuddling with Tate and cockwarming him the whole time would make him so happy especially if he got to just plant his face in your tits! Bonus points if he eventually starts sucking your nipples and bunny humps into you until he cums and then stays put because he’s just so safe and warmmmmmmmm

mature content ; MDNI 18+

oh, he’d be in absolute heaven. tucked up against you, face buried in your chest, arms wrapped so tightly around your waist like he’s scared you’ll slip away. he’s warm—well, as warm as he can be, given what he is—but his need for you is so tangible, so desperate, that it makes up for it.

he lets out these little, content sighs, nuzzling into the softest parts of you, his breath warm against your skin. he mumbles sometimes, nothing coherent, just little whimpers of your name, soft “mmh”s and “feels good”s under his breath. but after a while, you feel it. the shift of his hips, the way his cock twitches inside you. and then the first slow, needy grind.

“didn’t mean to,” he whispers, but his voice is slurred with sleep, and he’s already doing it again. slow, almost hesitant, like he doesn’t want to break the moment. but then his lips part against your skin, warm and wet, tongue flicking out as he starts sucking at your nipple, like it soothes him.

and when you shiver, when your fingers thread through his messy curls, he makes this soft, broken sound—half-need, half-relief. “feels so good,” he breathes, rutting against you now, barely-there bunny thrusts, nothing deep, nothing desperate. just need. slow, sweet, lazy.

it doesn’t take long. he tenses against you, mouth still latched onto your nipple as his hips stutter, his breath catching in his throat. and then he melts, exhaling shakily as he slumps against you, pressing even closer.

“‘m stayin’,” he murmurs, drowsy, satisfied. like you’d ever make him leave.

[ahqkas]

Can I make a request for Tate Langdon (American Horror Story), where fem!reader is innocent/pure? I usually see people making fanfiction of him where reader is like Violet, but I'd like to see one where reader has never even touched a cigarette before, never fought at school, has a healthy family, and etc! Feel free to ignore my request if you want to!! Thanks anyway 💗 (You can do whatever subject you want, fluff, angst or suggestive. You choose!)

hi lovely !! requests for ahs are currently closed but !!! i wrote u a quick blurb

YOU DIDN’T USUALLY SIT OUT ON THE BACK STEPS THIS LATE, BUT TONIGHT THE MOONLIGHT WAS TOO PRETTY TO IGNORE. The wind was crisp, and the stars above twinkled brighter than you’d ever seen. Your parents were inside, laughing at a movie you hadn’t been in the mood for. They didn’t mind when you slipped out—you always told them exactly where you were going.

You didn’t hear him approach at first. Tate had a way of appearing silently, like the shadows themselves delivered him. He stepped into the pale glow of the porch light, his hands tucked into his hoodie pockets, head tilted like he was sizing you up.

“You’re sitting out here alone?” he asked, his voice soft but edged with something you couldn’t quite place. Worry, maybe? Or something heavier.

You gave him a nod, tucking your knees up to your chest. “Yeah, it’s peaceful out here.” offering him a small smile, you tried to not let his intensity throw you off. “What about you? Aren’t you cold?”

Tate shrugged, sitting down a few steps below you. He stretched his legs out in front of him, slouching in a way that looked completely effortless. “Not really. Cold doesn’t bother me.” He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes catching the faint glow from the house. “You’ve got a nice family.”

You blinked at him, surprised. “Yeah . . . I guess I do. Why?”

“Just noticed,” he said, looking back up at the stars. His tone was casual, but his hands fidgeted in his lap. “It’s not like that for everyone, you know?”

You nodded again, unsure of what to say. There was something in his voice—a rawness you weren’t used to hearing. “I guess I’m lucky,” you added quietly.

Tate laughed softly, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Lucky, huh? Yeah . . . you don’t even know.”

There it was again. That edge, that heaviness. You wanted to ask what he meant, but something told you not to push. “What about your family? What are they like?”

His jaw tightened, and he turned away, his curls falling into his face. “Complicated,” he muttered. “Not like yours.”

The silence between the two of you stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was like the night had wrapped you in a bubble, isolating you both from the rest of the world.

“You can talk to me, you know,” you said softly. “If you ever want to.”

Tate froze for a moment, his eyes darting to where your hand lingered on his sleeve. Then, slowly, he turned to look at you, his expression unreadable. “You’re so . . . nice,” he said, like it was something foreign to him. “You shouldn’t be.”

“What’s wrong with being nice?”

“People take advantage of nice.” His voice was low, and he looked away again. “You don’t even see it coming until it’s too late.”

You tilted your head as you studied him. “Is that what happened to you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket, twirling it between his fingers. You’d never seen him smoke around you before—he always seemed to keep that part of himself hidden, like he was afraid you’d judge him.

“Want one?” he asked suddenly, holding it out to you with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You shook your head quickly, laughing nervously. “No, thanks. I’ve never smoked before.”

“Of course, you haven’t,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You wouldn’t.” He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching your face like he was looking for something. “You don’t belong out here, you know. In the dark.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

Tate didn’t answer. Instead, he lit the cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face. He took a slow drag, his gaze fixed on you the whole time. Then, in a voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it, he said, “You belong in the light.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe you didn’t belong in the dark.

But looking at him, sitting there with that haunted look in his eyes, you couldn’t help but think—maybe he didn’t, either.

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

[porcelianlocket]

─ ཐི ⋅my blog⋅ ཋྀ ─

hello! welcome to my account, for my fan fictions. this account takes requests, so don’t be afraid to do so. i’m mainly focusing on AHS fan fictions on here, so check out my AO3 if you want to see others; my ao3.

it will take a while to post all the fan fictions that I want to, so my account will look empty for a while.

things I will happily write; smut, fluff, angst… honestly, everything, I just won’t be as good at some types compared to others types.

send requests! <3 (listen while you scroll.)

[dippindaz]

Saints, Sinners, and Sleepwalkers | Kit Walker x Reader

Series Masterlist Here

6.3k words

Expect Disturbing Themes

Chapter 2: Circles Never End

Thredson’s Private Notes Page 1 (unshared with staff)

The patient’s apparent dissociation presents with an almost theatrical cadence—withdrawal followed by fluid, precise movement, reminiscent of learned choreography. It is unclear whether these episodes are purely pathological or performative in nature. Her silence is selective, not vacant. There is calculation in it, or at the very least, preservation.

She responds more readily to peer interaction than to institutional authority, particularly toward male figures. This could indicate either a conditioned survival mechanism or residual attachment trauma. I will need more one-on-one time to determine the depth and origin of her fugue states.

She does not present as schizophrenic. Not classically. There is something else at work here. Something purposeful.

— Dr. O. Thredson

The sound of a buzzer jarred you awake. Your body protested—stiff, disoriented—but you rose anyway. The morning light filtered through the small window, casting everything in a dull, washed-out hue. The usual routine crept in like clockwork, and your body knew its place before your mind could catch up.

The same orderly came. His hands rough but practiced as they handed you the small, chalky pills. You swallowed them without hesitation, feeling them settle in your stomach, a bitter weight to start your day.

A glance to the side told you that the others were already moving—some lethargic, some more alert, all caught in their own private, restless worlds. You wondered if anyone else felt as numb as you, if they were merely going through motions too.

Breakfast, as usual, was an endless affair of trays, unspoken words, and food that resembled little more than a grayish blur.

You didn’t need anyone to guide you; your feet knew the way to the dining hall. You plopped into your usual spot staring down at the tray of bland eggs, dry toast, and a small portion of sausage.

A tray was set down across from you. You expected it fully this time. Only sparing a brief glance at him before you glanced where Pepper usually sat. She was there, happily munching away.

Kit picked up his fork but didn’t eat right away, his fingers absently tapping against the side of his tray. It was a small thing, but you noticed. You always noticed the small things.

“You know,” he said after a beat, his voice a little quieter, “when I first got here, I thought I'd just keep my head down. Stick to the routine, get through the days. But…” He paused, chewing on the words. “It’s harder than I thought, just going through the motions.”

His gaze flickered up to meet yours then, and for a moment, the mask slipped—just enough for you to see the edges of what he was really feeling. Vulnerable, maybe. Not just some angry kid or some tough guy. Just… someone who was trying, like everyone else.

You couldn’t stop yourself from responding.

“Yeah,” you said, the word falling out before you could think about it. “It’s like the motions start feeling... like that’s it. That’s all that’s there.”

Kit’s eyes softened, just a touch. He didn’t press for more, but you could tell he was considering you, trying to place you, maybe.

“I get that.” He said it like he understood, like he wasn’t just hearing it, but feeling it, too. Then, he let out a soft sigh and leaned back a little, stretching his arms across the table, his shoulders visibly loosening.

“So, uh…” He glanced at his tray again, then back at you. “How long you been here?”

Kit picked up his fork but didn’t eat right away, his fingers absently tapping against the side of his tray. It was a small thing, but you noticed. You always noticed the small things.

You could hear the curiosity in his voice, but there was a careful edge to it. It wasn’t like he was interrogating you, just… testing the waters, maybe.

“A  while,” you said, and there was a bitter edge to the words that you didn’t expect. Maybe it wasn’t just the place that made you feel that way, but the waiting—the knowing that you’d be here for an indefinite amount of time, stuck in the same loops.

Kit didn’t comment on your tone. Instead, he just nodded, almost sympathetically, before going back to his food. There was a long pause before he spoke again.

“You, uh…” His fingers stilled on his fork. “You don’t let people in, huh?”

His words hung in the air between you. It wasn’t exactly an accusation, but it wasn’t a question either. He was right, you didn’t talk much. Didn’t trust much. And you definitely didn’t let anyone close enough to see what was really underneath.

You hesitated, caught somewhere between wanting to explain and wanting to stay closed off, the same way you always had.

“Talking... doesn’t make anything go away.” You said finally, looking down at your plate, tracing the edge of the tray with your finger.

Kit’s silence stretched a little longer this time, like he was trying to find the right words. But the pressure to explain—it wasn’t there.

Instead, he just gave a small, knowing smile. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I get that too.”

You glanced at him, the raw honesty of the exchange starting to sink in. You weren’t sure what to make of it, but somehow, it felt different. It felt like... maybe you weren’t as alone in this place as you thought.

For a while, you just sat like that—two damaged things orbiting the same quiet understanding.

The buzz of the room faded into the background, muffled and distant. For once, you didn’t feel the desperate need to shrink into yourself. You just... existed, side by side with someone who didn’t ask for more than you could give.

Kit scraped at his food without much enthusiasm, nudging the mushy eggs around like he was trying to find something worth eating underneath.

“Food’s shit,” he said after a beat, like it was a secret he was trusting you with.

A small, broken sound escaped you before you could stop it—a huff of something almost like laughter. It startled you as much as it seemed to startle him.

He grinned at that, wide and boyish, and it felt warm. Like the memory of a sun you hadn’t seen in years.

“You oughta laugh more,” he said easily, like it wasn’t a loaded thing to say. “Looks good on you.”

You dropped your gaze quickly, heart ticking unevenly, but the words stayed with you, buzzing low under your skin.

The clang of a tray dropping too hard against a table snapped the moment apart. The spell broke. You were back at Briarcliff. Back in your body. Back in the gray.

But something was different. Just slightly. Lighter. Airier.

It wasn’t long until trays were being thrown into the return and you were on to the next thing.

Occupational therapy wasn’t really therapy.

It was labor, dressed up in a prettier name.

Today, it was laundry—big plastic bins of sheets and uniforms and whatever else the hospital deemed too dirty to touch without gloves. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the air thick with bleach and the wet, sour smell of fabric that would never really be clean again.

You moved mechanically, your hands submerged in the lukewarm, grimy water, scrubbing the same stained sheet over and over again like the stain might eventually scrub itself from your memory too.

The door creaked open.

A familiar shuffle of boots on tile.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

Kit.

“Guess I’m stuck with you,” he said, more teasingly than anything.

A stack of linens dropped onto the counter beside you, sending up a puff of lint into the air. He pulled up a stool, sat down heavily, and grabbed a towel off the pile like it might bite him if he wasn’t quick about it.

For a few minutes, there was only the sound of water sloshing and fabric slapping against the basins.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you caught him watching you.

Not staring. Just... noticing.

“You move like you’re sleeping,” he said, voice low, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

You froze for half a second—just long enough for him to notice.

Kit opened his mouth like he was about to explain, or maybe apologize—but thought better of it. He just gave a small, sheepish shrug and went back to wringing out a sheet.

You didn’t know what to say.

So you said nothing.

Just kept scrubbing.

The linen in your hands slipped a little, your grip weakening.

You paused, stretching your arm out in front of you, rolling your wrist absentmindedly. The repetitive scrubbing was starting to bite into your joints, sending a dull ache all the way up to your shoulder.

You didn't anything of it.

But Kit did.

He set down the sheet he was folding, wiping his hands on the front of his pants. "Hey," he said, voice low but firm. "Gimme that. I’ll take over."

You shook your head immediately, pulling the wet sheet a little closer to you like it was something precious. Yours. Your task. Your way of staying grounded.

"I’m fine," you muttered.

Kit didn’t move for a second. Just watched you, expression unreadable.

Then he reached out, slow but deliberate, and gently pried the sheet from your fingers. His touch wasn’t rough. Wasn’t demanding. It was steady, like he wasn’t asking—he was giving you something.

A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding escaped your chest.

"You fold," he said simply, already plunging his hands into the next basin like the decision was made.

You blinked at him, thrown off by the easy way he took the burden without making it feel like charity. No mocking. No pity. Just—here, let me help.

Your hands, freed from the soaking weight of the laundry, found the dry linens instead. You folded one. Then another. The rhythm easier now, lighter, like something in you had loosened without permission.

Across from you, Kit hummed low under his breath as he scrubbed, a tune you didn’t recognize.

For the first time in a long time, the work didn’t feel so lonely.

For a few minutes, the only sound between you was the swish of water and the rustle of folding linen.

You focused on the simple task, letting your hands move on their own, feeling almost... weightless. Less trapped in your own skin than usual.

Kit kept humming under his breath, soft and low, like he didn't even realize he was doing it.

You found yourself listening without meaning to.

The question slipped out before you could stop it.

"What’s the song?" you asked, voice so quiet it barely crossed the space between you.

Kit glanced up, startled—but only for a second. His face eased into a small, real smile, like he hadn’t expected you to speak first but was damn grateful you did.

"Old church song," he said, scrubbing a stubborn stain out of a sheet. "Used to hear it when I was a kid. My Ma made me sit through Sunday service even when I hated it."

He laughed under his breath, a real sound, full of something bittersweet.

You folded another towel, considering that. "You didn’t like church?"

Kit shook his head lightly. "Didn’t like sittin’ still. Hated the sermons. But the singing? The singing was alright."

You caught yourself almost smiling, a twitch at the corner of your mouth.

Maybe you understood more than you thought.

Maybe the noise helped keep the bad things away.

Kit wrung out the sheet and tossed it into the basket beside him, wiping his hands on his pants like he didn’t mind the mess.

"You ever sing?" he asked, voice easy, no pressure behind it—just curiosity.

You blinked, fingers pausing mid-fold.

Sing.

The word stirred something deep in the hollow spaces of your mind. A memory you couldn’t quite catch—bright lights, warm faces, music that wasn’t heavy or punishing but free.

You cleared your throat, keeping your eyes down on the towel in your hands. "Not... not really."

It wasn’t a lie. Not here, anyway. Not anymore.

Kit didn’t push. He just nodded like he understood things left unsaid. Like he knew sometimes a no meant not anymore.

"You got that look," he said after a second, picking up another damp sheet. "Like somebody that’s got music in ’em whether they want it or not."

It hit you harder than it should have—because once, long ago, someone else had said almost the same thing.

Your throat tightened, but you shoved the feeling down. You folded the towel sharper, faster, keeping your hands busy so your mind wouldn’t drift.

Kit didn’t notice—or maybe he did and was kind enough not to say anything.

Instead, he hummed a little more, softer this time, letting the moment settle between you without asking for more than you could give.

And for once, you didn’t mind the quiet.

Occupational therapy stretched on, the minutes bleeding together in a slow, mind-numbing rhythm.

The two of you worked side by side, hands busy, words sparse. Sheets, pillowcases, worn-out hospital gowns—all of it needing to be wrung, folded, or clipped onto the sagging drying lines stretched across the room.

The work was monotonous, mechanical. You fell into it easily.

Twist, fold, pin.

Twist, fold, pin.

Kit didn’t hum anymore, but the tune still echoed faintly in your head, stubborn as a heartbeat.

Once in a while, you caught him glancing over—never lingering, never asking—but it was enough to make you focus a little harder on the creases of the fabric, the steady rhythm of your hands.

A sharp voice broke the quiet.

"Walker!"

You both turned. An orderly stood in the doorway, impatient.

Kit wiped his hands on the back of his pants again, giving you a crooked little smile.

"Guess that's my cue," he said, stepping back from the table. He hesitated for half a second, then added, almost awkwardly, "See you at lunch?"

You didn't nod, but you didn’t look away either. Maybe that was answer enough.

Kit’s grin softened—real, a little lopsided—before he turned and headed for the door, the orderly already barking at him to move it.

You were left alone with the fading smell of damp cotton and bleach, the pile of laundry still waiting for your hands.

The room seemed bigger without him in it. Quieter. Lonelier, somehow.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, reaching for the next sheet.

Twist. Fold. Pin.

The day wasn’t done yet.

The next sheet sagged heavily in your hands when a sharp knock rattled the doorframe.

You flinched, instinctively straightening up. An orderly stood there—different from the one who had taken Kit, this one broader, meaner-looking, with a permanent scowl carved deep into his face.

“Come on,” he barked, jutting his chin. “Doctor wants a word.”

You blinked, the sheet slipping from your fingers.

Doctor.

You followed without a word, muscles tightening with every step down the hall.

He led you down a different hallway. One you weren’t sure you’d ever been in. Your feet slowed on instinct, but a rough shove between your shoulder blades forced you forward again.

Not the one with the sharp turn and the rusted door handle you’d memorized by now. This hallway smelled like dust and paper, less bleach than usual. You passed unfamiliar signs. Unfamiliar rooms.

Then he stopped beside a door.

Not labeled. Just dark wood. Closed.

He opened it and gestured for you to go inside.

You didn’t ask. Didn’t resist. Just stepped in.

Because you’d learned by now—questions didn’t mean answers.

And things were always worse when you made noise.

The door shut behind you with a soft click. You stood still.

The room was warmer than Arden’s, less sterile. A desk, neatly kept. Shelves lined with books and case files. A couch. Two chairs. It almost looked like it belonged in a home—almost. But not quite.

“Hello,” came a voice. Calm. Even. Practiced.

A man stepped forward from the corner where he’d been adjusting something on a small side table. He looked younger than you expected. Clean-cut. Crisp shirt, tie done up neat. He offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You must be our contortionist,” he said gently, like he already knew you wouldn’t answer.

He didn’t sound mocking. But he knew that detail. The way he said it made your chest tighten.

“I’m Dr. Thredson,” he continued, moving to one of the chairs and motioning for you to sit across from him. “I’ll be handling your evaluation today. Just a few questions. Nothing to be nervous about.”

His tone was too smooth. Too kind.

That made it worse.

You didn’t sit. Not right away. Just watched him. He didn’t push. Just waited.

You lowered yourself into the chair. The cushion gave beneath you—softer than you expected. Not comforting. Just strange.

Thredson folded his hands in his lap, his expression open and attentive.

“I understand you’ve been transferred more than once,” he said mildly. “Different facilities. Different routines. That must be… disorienting.”

You said nothing.

He nodded, like that was alright. “I imagine by now you’ve gotten used to being asked the same things. Your name. How you’re feeling. What day it is.”

Still, silence.

“I won’t waste your time,” he said. “I’m more interested in you. How you see things. What helps you get through the day.” He sounded odd. Not in a bad way, but in a different way. He sounded… almost kind. You didn’t hear kindness in this place, aside from Sister Mary Eunice.

He leaned slightly forward—not too close, not imposing.

“Do you prefer structure? Routines? I know some patients find comfort in repeated patterns. It’s not uncommon.” His gaze flicked briefly toward your hands, then back to your face.

The way he asked it, it didn’t feel like a question. It felt like he already knew.

Your throat worked around the answer before your mouth did. The words came out small, half-formed. “I don’t know.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not really. Because maybe you did know once. Maybe once you had preferences. Desires. But now the days just were. One bleeding into the next, each shaped by whistles and bells and rules. You glanced up. Just enough to see how he took the answer.

Thredson didn’t write it down. Just nodded—thoughtfully, like he was filing it away.

“Thank you,” he said, as if you’d given him something valuable. “That’s perfectly valid.”

You weren’t sure if it was supposed to be comforting, but… it almost was.

“Do you dream much?” he asked.

You blinked. Not at the question, but at the way he asked it—like he wasn’t prying, just… wondering. Curious, not clinical.

“I don’t know,” you said again, but this time it came slower, like maybe it wasn’t entirely true.

Thredson nodded like he understood. “Dreams can feel hard to hold onto in a place like this.”

You studied the pattern in the wallpaper behind him. It was subtle—floral, maybe—but faded. Like someone had tried to scrub beauty out of it.

“Sometimes,” you admitted, quietly. “There’s music.”

He didn’t write that down either. Just watched you with those patient, librarian eyes.

“Do you like music?” he asked.

“…I think so.”

“What kind?”

Your lips parted—just a fraction—but no words came. You couldn’t remember the names. Just the feeling. A slow warmth. Strings. Something that made you twirl without thinking.

“Performed to it,” you said, surprising yourself.

A beat of silence stretched long between you.

“Is that so?” Thredson’s voice was still gentle, but you noticed the shift—something new curling under it. Interest. “Tell me about that.”

But you didn’t. Not really. Just tilted your head and let the silence answer.

He let it settle. Let you retreat again.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “if you ever do feel like sharing, I’d like to hear about it.”

You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no, either. He didn’t rush you. Just sat there like he had all the time in the world to figure you out.

After a moment he asked, “have you always felt this way? Like you’re… half somewhere else?”

The way he said it wasn’t cruel. There was no disbelief, no scorn. Just a soft curiosity, folded carefully into his voice, like an offering.

Your fingers twisted a loose thread on the chair’s armrest. Had you? Your memory felt slippery. Childhood was a blur — flashes of color, movement, the echo of voices you couldn’t always match to faces. Had you always drifted?

“I don’t know,” you said again, and the thread snapped between your fingers.

Thredson smiled faintly. Not mockingly. Patiently. “That’s alright. Sometimes, when something difficult happens, our minds protect us without asking. Especially if it happens when we’re very young.”

You stared at him. Words floated up before you could catch them. “I wasn’t supposed to cry.”

The confession hung there, brittle and strange. You hadn’t planned to say anything. Maybe it was the warmth of the room. Maybe it was the way he didn’t look at you like you were broken. Just… hurt. Like maybe all this wasn’t your fault.

“You were punished for crying?” he asked, voice careful, lowering just a little, like he was speaking to a cornered animal.

Your shoulders curled in without meaning to. “I don’t remember,” you whispered.

But you did. Somewhere inside, you did.

He didn’t press. Instead, he sat back slightly, loosening his posture, signaling — You’re safe. You’re in control.

“I’m not here to make you relive anything painful,” Thredson said. “Just to understand how you’ve been carrying it. That’s all.”

You didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. But… you almost wanted to trust him.

Thredson sat back in his chair, letting a moment of silence stretch — not awkward, but thoughtful. Then he spoke again, voice easy, as if they were simply continuing a conversation they'd started long ago.

"You've been through a few different hospitals before Briarcliff," he said. Not accusing. Not pitying. Just… acknowledging.

Your fingers froze against the fabric. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

"I’ve reviewed the notes from the others," he continued, his voice a low hum. "St. Mary’s. New Hampshire State. Boston. St. Dymphna’s. Our Lady of Peace."

The names flickered in your mind, each one like a shutter snap—cold beds, white lights, hands pulling at you, the hum of prayers in the walls.

"I imagine that must feel exhausting," he said softly. "Being passed from place to place. Being misunderstood."

A crack ran down the center of your chest—small, but there. He knew. He didn’t ask you to defend yourself. He didn’t accuse you of faking it. He just… saw you.

Thredson leaned forward slightly again, elbows resting loosely on his knees. "Was there ever a place that felt even a little safe?" he asked. "Even for a little while?"

The question was simple. But it split it split that crack wide open.

You thought—maybe—of the earliest place. Before the first hospital. A dim stage. Warm, heavy velvet curtains. Applause like distant rain. Laughter without fear.

But the feeling slipped away before you could grab it.

Your throat clicked when you swallowed. You shook your head once, a small, broken gesture. "No," you said. It came out flat. Not bitter. Not angry. Just true.

Thredson nodded again, slow and accepting. "I’m sorry," he said. And somehow, it didn’t feel like a lie.

He glanced at the clock, a faint crease forming between his brows. "I’m afraid we’ll have to stop here for today," he said, voice still calm, still patient. "But if you’re willing, I'd like to meet with you again soon. No pressure. Just... conversation."

You didn’t nod. Didn’t promise. But you didn’t bolt from the chair either. Mainly because you knew you didn’t really have a choice.

And somehow, that seemed to satisfy him.

"Thank you," he said sincerely, rising to his feet. "You did very well."

The door opened, and the same scowling orderly stood waiting. You rose slowly, your joints stiff, your mind buzzing, light and numb at once.

No time for questions. No time for recovery.

Because when the orderly tugged you into the hallway he turned, and you knew instantly where you were headed. Your stomach twisted—sharp and cold—but you didn’t resist. You never did. The walk to Arden’s wing felt shorter than it should’ve. Your feet carried you, but your mind drifted somewhere far away, already folding in on itself.

The room Arden used wasn't cold in temperature, but it felt colder somehow—the sharp scent of metal and medicine filling the space like fog. Arden’s voice was clinical. Demanding. He poked, prodded, muttered notes under his breath like you were a faulty specimen rather than a person.

You drifted partway through without even meaning to. It was easier that way. When it finally ended, the orderly didn’t speak. Just grabbed your arm and steered you toward the outside door.

A large door groaned as it opened, but it register until real air touched your face. Cool against your skin. Smelling like damp dirt and dying leaves. You stepped into it slowly, almost forgetting how to breathe it in.

Outside. For now, at least.

The yard was already dotted with scattered patients when you stepped through the door, their figures drifting like loose leaves over the grass. Some muttered to themselves. Some just rocked on benches or traced endless paths along the fence line.

You didn’t look for Pepper. You already knew—her schedule was different from yours. No chance of seeing her right now.

And that was fine. You didn’t want to talk anyway.

You turned toward the far side of the yard—the spot you always went to when you could. Near the crumbling old tree where the grass thinned out, leaving a patch of bare dirt exposed beneath the gnarled roots. The tree didn’t offer much shade, but it was something. Something older than the hospital. Something that hadn’t been built to trap people inside it.

You lowered yourself carefully onto the ground, crossing your legs, feeling the way the dry dirt crumbled under your palms.

For a moment, you just sat. Breathing. Letting the air cool the parts of you that felt rubbed raw.

Then your fingers twitched.

Without thinking, you dragged a fingertip through the dirt, carving out the first slow, shaky curve of a circle. And then another. And another. The motion steadying you more than the air, more than the silence.

You didn’t look around. Didn’t wonder if anyone was watching. You just circled. And circled. And circled.

Until the hospital walls faded a little at the edges of your mind.

Until you could almost, almost pretend you weren’t here at all.

Until you could feel the Florida sun bouncing off your skin.

Your hand kept moving, slow and steady, tracing the same worn groove through the dirt, deepening it little by little. The circles weren’t perfect—your finger wobbled sometimes—but that wasn’t the point. It was the motion. The feeling of it. The way it gave your mind something simple to hold onto.

A shadow shifted beside you. You stiffened, instinctively ready to pull away—but didn’t.

Hospital shoes scuffed quietly in the dirt. Then someone sank down onto the ground next to you, folding long legs with an easy, casual kind of grace. For a second, neither of you said anything. Just sat there. You could feel his gaze, not heavy, not sharp—just there. Watching your hand move.

"You weren't at lunch," Kit said after a while. His voice was low, unbothered, almost like he was talking about the weather. Not accusing. Not even really asking. Just stating.

Your fingertip paused against the dirt. A tiny break in the circle. You didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. Just pressed your finger down a little harder and started the next ring, smaller inside the last.

Kit didn’t press. Didn’t fill the space with more words. He just sat with you—patient, grounded—like he had time to wait if you ever decided to answer. Like silence didn’t scare him.

Your voice came quiet, almost scraped raw from disuse. "New doctor wanted to see me."

It wasn’t much. Just a handful of words. But it broke the stillness between you.

Kit shifted slightly, enough that you caught the movement out of the corner of your eye. Concern flickered across his face—not loud or dramatic—before he caught it and softened his expression again. He didn’t ask what the doctor wanted. Didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t even ask if you were alright.

Just nodded, like he’d heard you. Like that was enough.

After a few breaths, he glanced down at your hand moving in the dirt again.

"You makin' something?" His voice stayed easy. Almost casual. But there was a thread of real curiosity underneath. "Or... they just circles?"

Your fingertip hesitated at the edge of the groove, then kept going. The next ring smaller than the last.

"Just circles," you murmured. The lie tasted strange in your mouth.

Maybe once they had meant something. Maybe once, someone else had asked you the same question. And maybe you'd answered the same way then, too.

Kit didn’t seem to mind either way. He just stayed where he was, sitting close enough to share the shade, not close enough to crowd you. Like he understood that sometimes, it wasn’t about having answers.

Sometimes it was just about not being alone.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Just the sound of the breeze tugging at the tree branches above, the scratch of your fingertip against the dirt.

Then Kit’s voice broke the quiet again—softer this time. Almost like he wasn’t sure if he should ask.

"You ever think about it?" he said. He picked up a twig, turned it idly between his fingers. "Leavin', I mean."

Your hand faltered. Just a breath. A small, broken stutter in the circle you were carving. You stared at the ground, the line your finger had abandoned.

Leaving.

You had thought about it once. A lifetime ago, in a different place. Before the locked doors grew taller than you could climb, before the punishments taught you what trying cost. Your throat tightened. Not fear. Not even sadness. Something flatter. Something more dead.

You pressed your fingertip back into the dirt. Traced slower now—not circles anymore. Just wandering.

Kit didn’t push. Didn’t seem to expect an answer.

He just kept twisting the twig, his shoulders loose, voice low.

"I been thinkin’ about it," he said, like it was a secret, but not a dangerous one. Like maybe if he said it soft enough, it wouldn’t get either of you in trouble.

"Thought maybe I could prove I was innocent. That I wasn’t crazy," he whispered. "But... I dunno. Feels like everyone here’s workin’ against me."

Your hand stilled completely. You didn’t look at him right away. It was hard, dragging your gaze up.  But you did.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t sure if it was the past you were afraid of remembering—or the future you hadn’t dared to hope for. Not for years anyways,

You kept your focus on the dirt, watching the way your finger traced the same circular motion, over and over. It was easier that way. Easier to keep things small. To keep things distant.

But Kit’s words hung in the air between you, softer than you wanted them to be. There was something about the way he spoke—like maybe he really did get it.

You stayed silent. Maybe to the point her thought you wouldn’t answer.

"Not here," you said, voice barely a whisper, your finger faltering as you spoke.

Kit didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He just waited, the silence stretching gently, letting you decide if you’d give him more.

The circles in the dirt were starting to blur, your hands trembling slightly. You had never talked about it before. You never had friends in a place like this, aside from when Pepper got here. But Kit felt different from everyone else. Like Pepper in a way, like he was genuine.

You didn’t know what you were expecting with not responding. Maybe just for him to understand that it hadn’t worked. Maybe that it was foolish to try. But he didn't say anything, not for a while.

Finally, Kit spoke, his voice quieter than before. "What happened?"

"Don’t work."

Two words. Cracked at the edges. Heavy enough that you didn’t need to say more.

Kit didn’t answer right away. When you finally risked glancing sideways, he wasn’t looking at you. Just watching his own hands turning the twig, over and over. Like he was thinking real hard about something.

Kit’s voice broke the silence again, softer this time. “How do you know?” he asked, his gaze still fixed on the twig in his hands. “If you never tried here, how do you know?”

The question hung in the air, almost a challenge to the walls they were both trapped behind. He wasn’t saying it like it was something he expected an answer to. More like he was trying to believe, trying to hold onto the idea that escaping—leaving—was still a possibility.

Your fingers faltered again, drawing another half-formed circle. You didn’t look up. Didn’t want to.

“I don’t need to try,” you said, a little too quickly. It sounded convincing enough, but there was a slight edge to it—a tone that made you sound like you were telling a lie even to yourself. “It’s not possible here.”

Kit was silent for a beat, and you could feel his eyes on you, even without looking. His words were careful when he spoke again. “But what if it is?”

You didn’t answer at first, the dirt between your fingers cooling as you pressed into it. Your chest tightened just a little, but you hid it, keeping your face expressionless. No. You couldn’t entertain the thought. Not here. Not now.

“It’s not,” you repeated, softer this time. A little firmer.

Kit didn’t push. He just nodded, not quite satisfied, but not pressing you further either.

But deep down, behind the wall you’d built so carefully, something stirred. It was a tiny flicker, a reminder of something long buried. The part of you that still remembered what it felt like to believe in escape. The part of you that had tried once. It was barely there, but it was enough to make your hands hesitate—just for a moment.

You swallowed it down before it could grow, burying it back under layers of silence.

You didn’t say anything else after that. Neither did Kit.

The two of you just sat there in the thin, late-afternoon sunlight, the dirt cool under your fingertips, the breeze tugging gently at your hair. Every now and then you caught the small movements of Kit’s hands, still turning that broken twig over and over, like he didn’t want to let the silence fall too heavy between you.

It wasn’t a comfortable quiet. But it wasn’t painful either. It was something in between. Something real.

An orderly called your name and you both flinched. That was your cue to head back inside. You wiped your hands on your gown, brushing the dirt away, and without looking back, you stood and walked toward the gates, feeling the weight of Kit’s gaze lingering after you the whole way.

The chapel felt colder today.

Like the walls had leaned in since morning. Like they’d heard what you said outside.

You didn’t remember walking there, only the sudden hush of wood and stone around you. The smell of incense. Dusty. Sharp. You sat in the second pew from the front. Or maybe the third. It didn’t matter.

Sister Jude’s heels struck the floor like a warning. She spoke of obedience. Redemption. Suffering as a path to salvation.

You watched her mouth move. Didn’t hear the words.

There was something in her eyes when she looked at you—Not fire. Not even judgment. Just tiredness, maybe. Or disappointment that hadn’t burned out yet.

Someone coughed behind you. Someone cried. Your own hands rested flat on your knees. Still dirty. You hadn’t washed them.

“Confession,” Sister Jude said. Like it meant something.

The others lined up, one by one. You stayed in your seat. Your eyes found the stained glass above the altar. Red. Blue. Gold. You imagined what it might look like if the sun ever shone through it properly. Like blood and sky and fire, melting together.

When she called your name, you didn’t move.

Not right away.

And when you stood, your legs felt made of chalk.

Inside the booth, the wood was cracked and warm where others had leaned. You stared at the grain. Counted the rings. Didn’t speak.

“Child?” came the voice.

Low. Tight. Like Sister Jude didn’t want to be here either.

You opened your mouth.

Thought of the names again.

But you didn’t speak them.

Instead, you said:

“I don’t remember sinning.”

Your voice surprised you. Small. But not trembling.

Silence on the other side of the screen. Then a rustle. A sigh.

When you stepped out again, the room hadn’t changed. Same cold. Same quiet. You sat down. Folded your hands.

And waited for time to pass.

[24h7enkrank]

„i didnt want to, but you made it sooo easy..“

Kai Anderson - without consent.

-

This is my first post on here, it‘s just a drabble that rotted in my notes for a while, just for my own imagination.. lmao

-

Warning: this is a piece of FICTION with just pure non consent, if this makes you uncomfortable i advise you to scroll.

non-consent, p in v, reader is female, LOTS of dirty talk, degrading, praising, age gap (reader is 20, he‘s 30.) , reader was a virgin, choking, daddy kink if you squint, kai on adderall, deepthroating, fingering (reader receiving) , yeah if i missed something pls comment..

word count: 1,709

kai n i met in a vinyl store, he caught my eye and i went up to him, saying how him buying a vinyl is „sooo lana-del-ray“, making fun of him. he didnt mind and he even laughed along me, i asked him if the coffee he had in his hand was good and now im here, stuck in this cult, kai kissing my neck and calling me ugly names.

„i bet you get wet even thinking about me.“ he said, full of confidence, touching my needy cunt through my panties.

„tell me how much you want me to destroy your tiny cunt“ he rubbed his fingers roughly over my clothed-clit, it hurt. a lot.

„p-please.. let me go.“ i say with tears in my eyes.

„if you didnt want this your panties wouldn’t be soaked, you dumb little slut.“ he was visibly hard, touching me, raping me.

„please, kai.“ tears keep streaming down my face as he undresses my lower half.

„if you gave in, it wouldnt hurt as much.“ he kept on talking, at this point i was saying nothing.

kai slapped my face, his deep, black eyes digging through my reddened eyes.

„c-can we do this… when im ready?“ i say again, crying as i was still a virgin, a 20 year old virgin, while he was 30.

„you want me to, i know that you want it. your wetness tells me otherwise.“ he keeps rubbing his thumb over my cunt, making me gasp and whine.

„i- kai please i dont want you to take my virginity!“ i yell out into his face, his hand holding my face, his thumb stuffed deep inside my mouth, playing with my tongue now.

„virgin? you‘re a virgin? god…. i want to rip your pretty pink pussy open with my cock…“ he rambles him taking off my panties immediately now.

„please no! kai please…“ i cry now.

„you crying makes it even better, you are such a good toy.“ he spits on my face and i felt myself get wetter from his touch, just a natural response and i hated it.

„you disgust me; you are just a hole for me to fuck, do you understand?“ his hand was still stuck in my mouth, fucking his fingers into my throat as i try to pull away.

„i bet your little mouth would feel soooo good around my dick baby. if only you‘d stop crying.“ he was so mad at me, he knew i was interested in him but not into him sexually.

„if only you would give in.“ he says before he bites my own lip, i try to kick him away but it only ends with him holding my legs.

„why wont you be a good girl, hm? always have to ruin everything.“ he chokes me so hard that i cant even think straight, my legs resting on his shoulder.

i cry out again but i lose myself in his touch, i couldnt fight him so i just went limp.

„thats it, i knew you wanted this.“ his finger enter my cunt roughly, fucking his digits into my core, moaning and crying as he does what he does.

„your tight little pussy had me hooked from the start, the moment i saw you i knew how good it‘d feel.“ tears keep running down, i was trying to pretend this was a nightmare, a movie.. some kind off horrible porn thatd only weird people would watch.

„i never care about girls, i only fuck them, usually they thank me. kai you made me cum so hard, thank you daddy.“ he mimics some other girl, which probably didnt happen and he just said for his own pleasure.

„im just making sure you think of me when someone else fucks you, slut.“

„IM A VIRGIN! IM NOT A SLUT.“ i yell at him as he stuffs my wet panties in my mouth.

„SHUT UP.“ he yells even louder than me.

„be happy im prepping you.“ he said as he rammed his fingers in continuously, not even making me feel good and hitting the spot that id liked, it hurt. so much.

„does that feel good? i bet it does.“ he spoke through gritted teeth as his whole arm moved now, i shook my head violently and he took out the panties and stuffed his fingers in my mouth instead.

„tell me, is that not your cunt? does it not taste like you? hm?“ his nails dig into me, it felt close to cutting me.

„if it didnt feel good you wouldnt be this wet.“ his eyes were emotionless, he was clearly on some sort of drug, as i saw him do it.

„god babygirl, you had such whore potential, if only you didnt wanna leave.“

he said, referencing a few minutes ago, where the moment i entered his house, he started kissing me, i gave in to the kisses but said no to sex. his kisses felt good for a second, before his hand moved to my skirt and i said that i cant and had to leave.

„you have to expect that to happen, you are worth nothing. absolutely NOTHING. only just a cunt to fuck.“

he pushed me on the bed and threw my panties to the side completely, his fingers loged so deeply in my throat that i would gag.

„i want you to gag on my cock so bad, but im nice to you.“ he smiles, kissing my nose.

he turned me around and spoke „get on all fours, i dont want to see you cry anymore.“ i protest and sit up, before he pushed me down again.

„nu-uhuh.“ his tongue clicked.

„baby… come on.“ he whispered.

„p-please… be careful.“

i cry out again and again, begging for him to NOT rip me apart.

„okay, i promise.“ he spoke in a soft tone, this was oddly reassuring. even if i was raped it didnt hurt as mu-

he didnt even bother to turn me around now, and aligned himself with my entrance. before saying anything his cock slammed so deep and hard into me that i only could scream, him quickly shutting me up with a blanket in my mouth which he held there.

„fuck baby, you‘re so fucking tight, god.“ he spoke through gritted teeth, raping my cunt as tears wont stop streaming, it hurt so bad.

it stung, his dick was so thick… and long i felt it hit my cervix and when i looked down, i looked at the bulge in my tummy.

„you… argh~ fuck, so good.“ he couldnt even say a coherent sentence, screaming into his hand that held the blanket there.

his cock felt so warm, the sensation was new… but it hurt… more physiologically than physically.

i started to give in now, loosening up a bit, knowing it would hurt less.

„now you‘re a good slut, you take my cock so well.“ he says as he takes me by my hair to face me.

„i wish i could hear your moans and curses, but all you do is cry.“ he says as he kept slamming himself into me.

i shake my head, pulling out the blanket before i speak.

„k-kai… let me speak.“ he kept pushing deeper.

he takes out the towel completely.

„cumming?“ he jumps to the conclusion quickly. i shake my head.

„kai… it hurts so much!“ i cry out again before he slows down.

„i‘ll be nice.“ he says before his fingers touch my clit again, making me gasp.

he goes slower, hitting my sweetspot now too, making me moan loudly, giving into the sensation.. i tried to pretend he wasnt raping me.

„it feels so good.“ i say, trying to satisfy him, maybe he would stop.

„i told you baby, hm? sex is sooo fucking nice.“ he says before he whispers into my ear again.

„are you gonna cum? tell me when you are close. i want you to cum in my mouth.“ this made me feel sick, i didnt want his mouth on me, especially not on my womanhood.

i had hoped he was done, but he wasnt.

„im gonna fuck your pretty mouth too, you‘ll like that right?“ i dont say anything and keep moaning, him hitting my cervix again.

i didnt want it. i wanted it to end. so bad.

„p-please stop.“ i cry out again and again.

„no… you‘re just starting to make me like you.“ he kisses me, his tongue deep into my mouth and i let out a hum.

„i didnt want to rape you, but you made it soooo easy.“ his words hurt, he was traumatizing me even more.

„k-kai… why are you doing this?“ i look him right into his eyes, for the first time that day.

„dont… look at me.“ he turns my head away.

„i dont want you to look at me.“ he says as he slaps me again, just hurting me even more.

„im fucking you cuz i want to, bitch.“ he goes even harder now, i was probably bleeding too now and as he got even more rough now, my eyes seemed to upset him.

„you‘re on birthcontrol, right?“ he speaks through his teeth as he seemingly was close

„n-no, please… kai dont, just use my mouth!“ i beg as i look into his eyes again, trying to awaken the guy thats inside of his shell.

„and now we are begging, i told you you wanted it.“ yea. sure wanted it. definitely not trying to avoid pregnancy.

he pulls out of me with a hiss, my heat was hurting, swollen and just pulsating.

his hands rest on it and he looks at me, i felt sore.

„my dick is coated with your fucking juice, clean it up like a good little girl.“ he said as he ripped open my mouth, his tip resting on my lips.

„you have such a pretty mouth, put it to good use.“

he pushes his cock deep inside, my tongue gliding against it.

„mhhm, thats what i meant baby.“ he bucks his hips in my mouth as he holds me by my hair, i kept gagging.

„too big, huh?“ no, too rough.

tears were streaming down my face, and my eyes roll back.

„my fucked out slut.“ he speaks inbetween animalistic grunts.

I HOPE YOU ENJOYED !! pls comment n reblog maybe ! :3 i lov you

this is my first post, so again… pls dont be mean.

[drowningyoursorrow]

'ALL MY DREAMS AND ALL THE LIGHTS MEAN NOTHING WITHOUT YOU

kit walker x gn! reader (requested)

You and Kit first met when you both were sent to the asylum for crimes neither of you committed. You two grew incredibly close but never tried for anything more, although you badly wanted to. When the both of you were released, you went separate ways, you found the limelight and became a surviving star. Books and talk shows about your experience whilst Kit went off the radar, you try to gain his attention with your stardom. But will you succeed?

!!!: violence, swearing, kissing, angst W/C: 4.2k

YOU still clearly remember the day that you were dragged out of your very own home and misplaced into the asylum. An unfortunate day it was, you were grieving the loss of your best friend. It was raining that evening, everything was aching, and you felt as if you couldn't carry on. How could you? Your dear friend was everything that you had, without them, you felt as if you had nothing.

Before you could mourn any longer, there was a loud bang and distant shouting, outside your home. Fear struck you, then there it was. "Open the door _, you are under arrest for the murder of _!" Before you could even collect what was going on, your front door slammed forward and fell just before you. There you came face to face with a group of police officers, with a few holding guns and riot shields.

Your ears were ringing and everything felt hazy during that moment, then quickly you were shoved into your floor. Your head hit the ground hard, which only made you feel more nauseous as people surrounded you. Soon you felt yourself being roughly handcuffed, then being pushed through the crowds of officers and people as camera flashes blinded you. What was going on? Then you felt yourself fall into the backseat of a van, you couldn't hear anything, you could hardly even see.

Eventually, everything drowned out as you felt yourself pass out and succumb to your concussion. Soon after, it felt like you weren't awake, and you weren't sleeping either, you felt the vehicle shake as it moved. Everything felt so painful and sore, you could mildly make sense of your current condition. Laid flat at the bottom of the vehicle in between rows of seats on the side on the inside. Everything appeared metallic, your senses slowly coming back to you as you felt the cold of the steel.

Weakly you pushed yourself onto your knees, holding on the edge of a seat, attempting to lift yourself up. You managed to sit yourself onto the side and study the rest of your surroundings and your state. It appeared to be the back of a van, but everything else seemed to be barricaded, only a small window in the back doors. You peered through them, clumsily, and only saw rows of trees surrounding the road behind you. The sky was dark and appeared slightly stormy, worse than before.

You wanted to scream and kick around, beg them to let you go. But your heart wasn't in it, you recall them mentioning murder--you murdering somebody. The name being a blur but of whom was what you couldn't remember, your head was throbbing. You tried to touch where it hurt and finally picked up on the chains that were wrapped around your shape. How did you just now notice this?

That was probably why you struggled so much just to sit yourself up. Nevertheless, you lifted your cuffed hands and felt the top of your forehead, wincing at the slight pressure. You brought them back and noticed blood now covering your fingers, drawing in a breath to calm yourself. You relaxed but still couldn't ignore the pain that took place in every part of your body, you just wanted to know where they were taking you.

Not only that, but you'd assume you were about to be locked up for a murder, that you hadn't done. Maybe it was still the grief that filled you or wanting to just lay down and never wake up. But you honestly had hoped where you were going had something for you to lay, even though that should be the least of your worries. You closed your eyes and leaned against the wall behind you, hoping this was a dream of some sort. But you knew that the pain you're feeling was real and genuine, what a terrible day it was.

There was a loud bang of the doors being slammed open and darkness surround you as you struggled to recollect yourself. You felt your sides being pulled, and messily climbed out from the vehicle, still unable to really see. You could only piece out, what looked to be, a hospital? Before you just closed your eyes trying to gain back your consciousness, soon feeling yourself being pushed upstairs. Then cool hair hit you and just for a second, you basked in it.

Only being able to see fluorescent lights above you and faint talking beside you, and now you were just clumsily standing. Before you could feel yourself collapse, you were being dragged somewhere again. Then once again, you were shoved into a room, the sound of a door shutting behind you. You were still in chains, but you hoped that they'd remove it later, since it was dark when you made it out of the van. You fell into what you assumed was a bed, ignoring the discomfort you felt.

The walls were messy and old, everything was secluded, and you could faintly make out a bucket. You just laid yourself back down, making due with a position with the chains. And you closed your eyes, letting the exhaustion finally hit you, the pain subsiding only for a moment. For some reason, you didn't feel angry or anything, only tired, like you've given up already. You thought for a moment, you hope tomorrow is better.

You were awoken by clanging from outside your door, sitting yourself up against the wall behind you. The door creaked open as a nun made her way to you, looking down at you, judging you. You only looked up at her, unsure of what to make of the situation, mainly focused on why a nun is in a prison? "Get up." It was all she said, and you complied immediately, she seemed to appreciate that as she just gave you a smirk.

She pulled out multiple keys and undid the chains on you, surveying you as you rubbed relief into your arms and legs. A grateful look took place over your features as you gave her a hesitant smile, "thank you, thank you very much." That was all you could make out, your throat felt dry and sore, you could almost hear it when you spoke. "Follow me, I need to take you to the common room where you can stay in your free time." You only nodded and followed behind her, stumbling a bit with your steps as she led you through the long hallways.

You observed the walls and rooms you two came across for a moment, and then it clicked in your head. You weren't at a prison, you were at an asylum. But why? Before you could question any further, you two stood before a room that held groups of people. You turned to look at her, clearly confused and lost, but she only held up a finger.

"Just go on, I'll give you a proper tour of this place later, I have business to attend to." And with that she was gone, you were a bit far away from the room, so nobody really noticed you. You just swallowed away your questions and stepped into the room, it was loud and a bit messy. You could feel that you stood out from the rest of these people, but you continued your way around the room. A record player was beside you, you made sure to situate yourself away from everybody.

You were sure that the confusion was evident on your features because there were two, seemingly normal people approaching you. Unsure of how to really converse with the situation you're in and your current condition, you just pretended as if they weren't there. But they tapped you and stared at you, confusion on them as well, they were studying you. There was a male and a female, looking similar in a way, they both had brown hair and were pale as can be. They looked more rugged than you did, beside the blood stains and bruises that probably showed on your features.

"What happened with ya'?" The guy spoke up, and the woman just glared at him, in turn he just gave her an apologetic look. You didn't know what to say, and your throat was still in pain, but you tried your best to sound normal. "I got knocked out and brought here, I thought they would've put me in the cooler or something. Is this like a place for crazy folks?" You let the question slip out, but they seemed amused at your response but remained hesitant. "Ya, sort of, what did ya' get in here for?"

The guy seemed to have a lot of questions, but his expression seemed genuine, so you continued. You thought for a moment, "well, my best friend died recently, so I was processing that, and the fuzz just came in and said I murdered someone, I can't remember who they said, but I didn't. I couldn't even say anything really, I was just put here." The two of them took in your words and relaxed a bit before nodding their heads, "Ya, that's how it wus' for me too. Lana here was put in here for somethin' differen' though." The two of them continued asking more questions about you and the events that lead to you coming there.

Throughout the upcoming weeks, you got to know the both of them more and discover how long they've been at the asylum. Kit Walker was the name of the guy, he was a sweet fella and often got hurt the most. Lana Winters was the name of the woman, and she was more on the quiet and mature side. It took her longer to really warm up to you, but she looked after you as much as Kit did. They told you their whole plan to escape and get out of the place, they were setting everything up and wanted you to be a part of it.

You gladly agreed, when you guys weren't setting up your plans and brainstorming over almost everything. You'd occasionally hang out, Lana mostly did her own thing and you didn't bother her. Not only that, but you admired her in every way if you were being honest, you had placed all of your trust with the both of them. They've clearly been through more together, and you didn't mind, you enjoyed what you could get. You often spent more time with Kit since he seemed to enjoy quality time.

As the months passed, Kit began to tell you about himself and what he's gone through when he first came to the asylum. About his wife and, Grace, he never went into specific details on what had happened, afraid you wouldn't believe him. But when he did admit to what really happened, he expected you to just stare at him and believe he was joking. He was surprised and conflicted when you only turned sympathetic, your eyes didn't doubt anything he said. And that's when he felt it, he felt his stomach flutter, and he could only give you a breathless smile.

You two would hold each other when you cried and find comfort in one another whenever the two of you were alone. Sneaking out of your rooms a lot just to enjoy random spots Kit discovered in the asylum, and you loved every second of it. Occasionally Lana would tag along and those two would bicker like siblings, they finally made you feel whole again. You didn't really feel the need to communicate with them when you all hung out, you enjoyed just being alongside them. Lana would listen to your sorrowful stories, and Kit would hold you dearly when you cried.

You did grow more and closer with the both of them, and you viewed them both as very close friends. Well, your only friends. But you saw the both of them very highly, Lana, eventually picked up on your sudden interest in Kit. She pestered you about it until you did tell her that you were quite fond of him, and she could only smile. She gave you advice or things she's heard him say about you, and you pretended it didn't affect you.

Kit couldn't contain his smile whenever you two would interact, most often looking forward to when you guys would chat. Whenever he would come back after a punishment, he would immediately seek you out, since you would soothe him. He pretended like your platonic hugs didn't matter, but he always found himself melting into your touch. Whenever you got in trouble, he would plead to get caned instead of you, it hurt him to see you get punished. And as for you, you even begged to take his caning instead of him, and you were bad as him.

Eventually you two would talk about life when the both of you got out of the asylum, what you'd do, who'd you become. He mainly talked about how he wanted to get married or to adopt kids, he was always fond of the domestic life. You didn't care what you did or who you'd be, you mentioned how you hoped all of you would still be close. It made him pause and think about it, he only stared ahead as he thought about his future with Lana and you. All he said after that was, "I hope for us to have a good future together."

You didn't push, he was out of it for the rest of the day, seeming lost in thought a lot as you and Lana talked. Hoping it wasn't something that you said, you just headed back to your room, shamefully. Lana only watched you leave as she glared at Kit, he wasn't even paying attention, just anxiously bouncing his leg. When he finally did look up, you were gone and Lana was complaining about his behavior. It registered in his brain that you must've been put off by his sudden change of behavior.

He only groaned into his hands as Lana pitied him and his obliviousness, so she headed off to give him some time to himself. But he finally figured out what he wanted. As he stared up at the ceiling of the common room, leaning back against a chair. It was registering in his mind on how you two would laugh and hold onto each other, enjoying the other's presence. He wanted his future to be with you.

Building up the courage, he told you, he told you how he wanted to get out of this place with you. He told you how he wanted to be together with you, to get married to you. He told you how he wanted to raise kids with you, if you wanted to. He told you how he finally found someone who genuinely made him happy, and it was you. He told you that he was in love with you.

It was when the both of you snuck out and hid in his room, you could only smile as tears escaped you. He was scared, why were you crying? But all you did was just smile and kiss him, you kissed him like your life depended on it. And he accepted every ounce of love that you were willing to give. You two laid in each other's arms that night, looking forward to a better life together.

Later, you slipped out of his arms to head back to your room, not wanting to get in trouble. You slept more peaceful than you ever had that night. When you awoke, you could only see Kit sitting alone in the common room, he was lost in thought. He saw you approaching, and a blissful grin broke across his features, he hugged you, but you were worried about her. Most often, she was there before the both of you, so where was she?

But before you could think any further, what he said made you frozen. "Lana--Lana got out!" You stilled and joy filled you, you recalled what the plan was, she escapes and proves you and Kit's innocence. You couldn't even form any words, so you and Kit just held each other, your future was coming. Furthermore, you could hardly even think for the remainder of the day, you knew Lana was always smart, your admiration was what fueled you. She was your inspiration and your support, you already couldn't wait to see her once more.

A couple of weeks passed, and eventually you were able to get out before Kit, you were framed for the murder of your best friend. The thought still angers you and makes you feel defeated, but they eventually discovered it was suicide. You don't like thinking or talking about it, guilt always swallowed you whole whenever you did. Lana revealed that the forensic department was just uncoordinated and didn't look more deep into the cause of death. And what led to it, automatically assuming it was you because of close relations.

You told Kit that you'd gladly wait for his release and that you'll be waiting for him, and you two would get married. And he kissed you one last time before the two of you departed, The tape was revealed, proving his innocence, but it still took some time to get him out of there. During that time you came face to face with reporters, obliviously you answered each one. People even offered you a lot of cash just to say one sentence to them with your experience in the asylum. Before you were sent away, you were having money problems and barely making it to the next month.

So, you accepted each offer that came. Every book deal, every guest appearances, and anything that was offered. Overtime, you became a surviving star, Lana seemed to take the same route as you and you two would soon discuss ideas with each other. When Kit was eventually released, all he saw everywhere was you. All of it confused him, he'd seen you and Lana everywhere and for some reason. He didn't feel ecstatic about it.

He could see the change in the both of you, but what he didn't like most of all was who you became. When you heard of his release, you immediately went to him and greeted him. You couldn't contain your excitement one bit, and so when paparazzi discovered who you've been head over heels for all this time. It was everywhere. Kit accepted all of your attention, but he wanted nothing to do with the press or any of it. You two did spend a lot of time with each other, and you were giving offers to Kit, which would help him get back on his feet.

He could only stare at you with a saddened expression, all he wanted you to know was why you were doing this? You two had each other, why would anyone else matter? Nevertheless, he never judged you, he just denied every time you wanted to do a collaboration with him. With your busy schedule, the two of you began to fall apart, with bickering that turned into full-fledged arguments between the two of you. At the time, you were upset, and you just couldn't get where he was getting at.

Overtime, the both of you just broke it off, and you knew you felt your heart shatter when you went out your guy's shared home. He regretfully watched you from behind. He watched on how you didn't turn around when you were grabbing your bags, how you didn't turn around when you walked out through the door. How you didn't turn around when you put your bags into the back of your car, on how you didn't look back when you got into the driver's side. How you didn't even slow down or stop when you drove out of his sight, to never come back.

You watched how he just stood there when you packed your bags, you watched how he got out of the way for you to walk through the door. How he didn't say anything when you were grabbing your keys and heading to your car. How he just stood there and watched you put your luggage into your vehicle. How he just stood there when you got into the driver's side and paused for a moment. How he just stood there and watched you leave, without even waving or saying goodbye.

Years passed, and you became more than you ever were, with your new books and talk shows. You had everything you could ever dream of stardom, money, and cars, you'll always remember who got you into vehicles. You heard of his new upcoming marriage, you didn't know until Lana came to you and told you. It was when the two of you were just visiting in your apartment, she knew that it was better to know now rather than later, and you only paused and stared ahead out the window. You were happy for him, he was getting all that he wanted in his life, he was achieving his dream.

Maybe you should've fought harder for what you really wanted and not what you thought was the best for you two. You could never forget the expression on his face when you both agreed to separate and go your own ways. Your vision became blurry as your face became wet, Lana didn't say anything, she just went to you. And held you, just like he used to. You only began to sob harder and bury yourself into her arms, wanting to disappear and forget about everything.

You eventually calmed down and just gave a content smile, you were happy for him. But you knew that deep down that you'll always love Kit Walker and his terrible jokes. Lana and you decided to attend the wedding yourselves, deciding not to tell him that either of you were going. You slowly let yourself recover and adjust to him being with someone else, it was for the best. He was going to get what he wanted from the start, and you were going to happily watch him do it.

When the lucky day came, you decided to dress modestly and try your best to blend in with the rest of the crowd. Kit quickly noticed Lana, but he didn't see you, you made sure to stay in the back of all the crowds. You walked away from the group and stayed in a more secluded area as you smoked, needing a break. You heard someone approach you from behind, and you realized it was him. Surprised, you choked on the smoke in your lungs and hurled forward, the pain catching you off guard.

Kit obviously tried to go help you, but you just shoved him off and turned away from his curious eyes. He shouldn't see you like this. "Holy, are ya' alright? That sounded like it hurt, real bad." There was a smile in his tone, you just nodded your head weakly, still facing away from him. You wore a hat earlier to help your disguise, and it was working, "yeah, yeah feelin' great."

Shifting your voice into more of a deeper tone, he didn't seem to pick up on it. He just chuckled behind you, and you contemplated what to say, you wanted to talk to him one last time. "So how's the wedding? Best day of your life?" "I spose' you could say that, it's a weird feeling." "How so?" "I don' know, guess this wasn't what I expected." "Well, what did you expect?"

The question made him pause as he looked at the view behind the both of you, the ceremony was still going on. He's not even sure what drew him to this place to speak with this stranger, so he pauses. "Thought it'd be different," was what he finished with before heading back to his now spouse. You didn't even realize that you began to cry, so you hurriedly wiped away the tears and took a second. You'll be okay.

There stood Kit as he waited for his partner, you didn't want to look at his expression, knowing it'll only make you hurt more. Why were you doing this to yourself? They eventually looked at each other and said their vows, that was when you finally decided to look up. He was so happy, and you could feel your throat becoming dry once more, this was for the best. Mindlessly, his eyes surveyed the crowd before he finally kissed his spouse.

There he saw you. You were crying, but a smile was placed on your features as you clapped. You weren't looking his way, no, you were staring at the ground below you. Afraid to look up, it was already too much for you. So you got up and headed to leave, Kit stopped the kiss and stared at your back. He was watching you leave again, and a familiar feeling bloomed in his chest.

He finally saw you again after all of these years, and it's the same way when he saw you last. He could only smile as he realized it was you he was speaking to earlier, you who he watched choke on a cigarette. Turning back to stare at his partner in the eyes, but in the back of his mind he thought of something differently. He recalled the question you asked from before, what was different? he expected he would be marrying you. Maybe in another lifetime, would you be the one he's saying his vows to, maybe you two would've ran away together.

Maybe you both wouldn't be cowards next time, you'll always love each other in the end anyways.

..............................................................................................................................

- Inspired by Without You by Lana Del Rey - I have not written something with this many words in a while - Sort of proofread? - Alternate ending maybe

Hope you enjoyed and if you have any requests or questions please dm!