#AHS Imagine

[iamnotoriginalphil]

Sweet Girl (Billie Dean Howard x f!Reader)

Synopsis: Meeting your mother's friend was the best day of your life.

Words: 6.9k

Warnings: Semi-choking, praise kink, smut, age gap, marking, alcohol consumption, swearing

“Hey, mom, I-”

You paused in the doorway. The blonde woman who looked up at you, hands curled around one of your mother’s mugs, steam wafting upwards, was most certainly not your mom. Her pink lips quirked up into a smile, eyes sweeping over your body before settling on your face again.

“You’re not my mom,” you said.

“I’m certainly not,” she replied.

You weren’t sure what else to say. She was still watching you, head tilted to one side, and you felt yourself tremble under her gaze. There was something about it that felt like a caress across your skin.

“Um, is my mom around? Only I’m pretty sure this is still her house. Unless she moved without telling me which I wouldn’t put past her,” you said.

“She’s upstairs,” she replied.

“Right.”

Your weight rocked forward before you fell back. Looking away, you were feeling something growing in your stomach, familiar and warm, making your fingers itch. You shoved your hands into your pockets. Her low chuckle was throaty, your eyes snapping up to her again.

The silk blouse she was wearing was open just one button too far, an enticing shadow making you want to lean forward and run your tongue between the valley of her breasts. She crossed one leg over the other, drawing your attention down to where her skirt fluttered around her calves. A hand tipped in pink acrylics began to drum over the tabletop, slow and deliberate. You felt breathless, standing under her gaze.

“Ah, darling, you’re here. Wonderful. Have you met Billie? You must have,” your mother said, coming down the stairs.

You dragged your eyes away from her guest, Billie, to look over to her. She was smiling at you, looking ready for brunch. In your jeans and t-shirt, you were definitely the most underdressed in the room.

“Why are you dressed like that?” your mother asked, sweeping past you to sit at the table with Billie.

“You asked me to come over. Is everything okay? What’s going on?” you asked.

“Darling, we’re going to brunch,” she replied.

“What? Mom, I have class in twenty minutes. I thought this was an emergency,” you said, your exasperation leaking through.

“Surely you can skip just this once,” your mother said, “you’re always too busy to see me anymore.”

“Mom,” you sighed.

“Billie was so looking forward to meeting you,” she said.

“Come on,” Billie said, leaning towards you, “live a little.”

“Fine,” you said, “fine, but you’re buying my meal. And drinks.”

“Whatever you say, darling,” she said.

Sitting in the back of your mother’s car as she drove, you did your best not to stare at the blonde head in front of you. Her eyes kept finding yours in the rear view mirror, sparkling brown, while she kept up with her conversation with your mother. You felt like a sullen teenager sitting there, silent and annoyed. The guilt churning in your stomach was an irritant, your mother knowing how to push your buttons.

The restaurant you were brought to was fancy, fancier than you would ever go to with your friends. From the way you were being looked at, you knew you weren’t dressed well enough for the place. You sat outside, across from Billie, your mother between the two of you. Your server poured iced water into the glasses before leaving the three of you, your quiet thanks the only one given.

“What are you studying?” Billie asked.

“Media and communication,” you replied, fiddling with your cloth napkin.

“A useless choice,” your mother scoffed, scanning over the menu, “I told her to choose something worthwhile. Like biology or accounting.”

“I want to make documentaries,” you said, ignoring your mother completely.

“Well, that sounds wonderful,” Billie said.

“Don’t indulge her,” your mother said.

“Mom, we’ve talked about this,” you sighed.

“You’re so smart, darling. You could do more with your life than making silly movies about things people don’t care about,” she said, placing her menu down.

You gave a cursory glance over yours, not wanting to answer her. You’d had that very same argument time and time again, there was no point trying again. She had her opinion and there was no changing it in your experience.

“Perhaps I could put you in contact with some documentarians,” Billie said before your mother could go into it again, “or if you’d like work experience my show is always looking for interns.”

“Show?”

“Darling, you know Billie. There’s no point feigning ignorance,” your mother sighed.

“Billie Dean Howard,” she said, extending her hand over the table, “medium to the stars.”

You shook her hand, the brush of her skin over yours bringing heat to your cheeks. She was giving you a small smile, chin tilted down, her eyes sparkling with interest. Your breath caught, tongue darting out to wet your lips. Her gaze dipped down to your lips, making heat bloom in your stomach.

“You know her,” your mother was saying, not noticing of the moment you were having, “I’m sure you’ve seen her show. It’s always on.”

“Mom, I don’t… own a TV,” you said, breaking the moment, turning away from Billie and the gravity you felt begging you to fall into her.

“You don’t?” Billie asked.

You turned to look at her, finding her resting her chin in the palm of her hand. Your breath caught again, the way she was looking at you was like you were the most interesting thing she could imagine. You weren’t used to being looked at that way.

“May I take your orders?”

You startled, not having noticed the waiter approaching. A curse slipped over your lips, Billie’s throaty chuckle only bringing more heat to your cheeks. You muttered your order, passing over the menu.

“And a round of mimosas,” your mother said.

You opened your mouth to argue but then shut it again. Billie caught your eye, giving you an amused smile. Butterflies burst in your stomach. You looked down to your lap, not needing this while also dealing with your mother. Why did your mother have to have such a beautiful friend?

You listened as they talked, staying silent. Billie kept catching your eye across the table, a twist of her lips and wandering gaze making you wonder if this wasn’t some kind of torture. Your mother seemed none the wiser of your crisis, but the blonde was watching you as you did your best not to wonder what her fingers would feel like trailing along your skin as they circled the rim of her mimosa.

You downed yours in your attempt to keep yourself from groaning when her tongue darted out, chasing a drop of orange juice at the corner of her lips.

Your French toast was placed down in front of you, the mimosa replaced without being asked. Digging in, you watched Billie salt her eggs Benedict. Your mother wrinkled her nose at you.

“Darling, at some point you’ll have to raise your palette to something more adult,” she said.

“You know I have a sweet tooth,” you mumbled.

“It’s hard to resist something so sweet, isn’t it, sweet girl?” Billie said and you thought you had to be reading too much into her words.

There was no way she’d blatantly flirt with you in front of your mom. Would she? Maybe she would. You didn’t know her at all.

You wanted to though.

As you went to take a sip from your replenished mimosa, you felt a foot graze along yours. You spluttered, dribbling some of the cocktail down your chin. You wiped it away, ignoring your mother’s admonishment to glare across the table. Billie had her lips pressed together, suppressing laughter as she peered back at you, eyes twinkling.

Her foot was slow to glide up your leg, taking her time as you felt yourself become more unhinged. Swiping up some of the sauce on her plate, her tongue licked along her fingers before she sucked it into her mouth, cheeks hollowing, dark eyes keeping your attention hostage. Your mother was still speaking, but it was on the periphery of your senses, your entire being focused on the feeling of her foot brushing your leg, her tongue flicking over her skin, her eyes boring into yours.

Her small smirk told you she knew exactly what she was doing to you.

“I should go,” you said, abruptly standing.

“So soon?” Billie asked.

“I have class,” you muttered, “I’ll text you later, mom.”

You fled from your brunch, heart racing and skin tingling. Dark eyes haunted you on your trek to college and you found yourself wondering what pink lips would taste like. You were stuck contemplating the entire experience instead of listening to your classes, not willing to admit how much you wanted her.

Later, at home, you watched clips of her show on YouTube, one hand in your underwear, imagining it was hers.

A week later, against your better judgement, you agreed to join your friends at one of the bougie bars that you knew was overpriced but catered to a certain clientele. Growing up with a relatively rich crowd, you still felt out of place, even with your mother’s money. It had always settled around you like an uncomfortable skin. But every now and then, you joined your childhood friends for a night out.

This time you did not come underdressed. Your dress was nice and your hair was styled. You’d even put on some makeup. You had heels on. No one could suggest you hadn’t dressed up for your night out.

The lighting was dim, making the atmosphere feel intimate. It was the kind of place you’d bring a date, if you wanted to show off the way your father tried to buy your love by filling your bank account.

Your friends claimed one of the tables, plush leather seats cushioning your body. A bottle of champagne was bought for the table, starting off your night. You kept relatively quiet, listening to what your friends had been up to, not wanting to admit that you were still pursuing a college education in something not business adjacent. You’d heard every joke under the sun from them when you’d first started. Mostly about how you were going to be a homeless bum by the time you were thirty.

A large group came in somewhere between the third and fourth round of drinks. You kept your head bent, not caring, only concerned for the noise that would come from them. There was a part of you considering going home, not sure you should have said yes to coming out with your friends. You were getting pleasantly buzzed, but you were tired and looking to curl up in bed with your laptop and thoughts of dark eyes and pink nails.

Noticing your drink was empty, you got to your feet, wandering up to the bar. You hoisted yourself into one of the seats, one leg crossing over the other, the hem of your skirt riding up as you lent forward.

“Hello, sweet girl,” a warm voice purred in your ear.

You startled, turning your head to look over your shoulder. Blonde curls resting against her shoulder, lips pulling up into a wicked smile, dark eyes glittering, Billie Dean Howard looked as if she’d stepped right out of your fantasies. You could feel your eyes widening as you watched her take the seat beside you, long fingers tapping on the top of the bar, pink acrylics making a pleasing noise where they connected with wood.

“What are you doing here, sweet girl?” she asked, “I wouldn’t think this was your kind of a place.”

“My friends,” you gestured somewhere behind you, “they uh… this is their kind of place.”

She didn’t even bother glancing at your group. Her eyes had settled on you and you weren’t sure they would be moving any time soon. The barman arrived and she didn’t even bother looking to him, ordering for both you and herself. Your heart fluttered. She oozed confidence, as if there was no doubt in your mind that she was charming you.

She was.

A green cocktail was placed down in front of you, the gin and tonic she’d ordered far simpler than your drink. She waited for you to try it before she sipped from her own drink, humming low in her throat. You shuddered, sweetness bursting on your tongue from the sugar rim on the glass. You licked some away, watching the way her eyes darkened as she watched your tongue drag along the glass.

“Are you enjoying it, sweet girl?” she asked.

You nodded, “thank you. You didn’t have to.”

“Let me spoil you,” she said, hand landing on your leg.

Her thumb brushed the inside of your thigh, your skin almost electrified under her touch. She lent towards you, her nails digging in just enough to feel the sting. Heat coursed through your veins. You found yourself leaning towards her too, not able to stop yourself.

“Would you like to be spoiled, sweet girl?” she asked in almost a whisper.

Your mouth turned dry, knowing you definitely weren’t reading too much into her words now. Her eyes drifted down, lingering on your cleavage, shown to great effect in your dress. Her hand shifted up, just an inch, making you shiver.

“Well?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Yes please,” you breathed.

Any reason to say no was gone from your head. That fact she was friends with your mom didn’t even register. All you could focus on was the heat pooling in your stomach and the brush of her thumb over the vulnerable skin of your inner thigh. Your teeth sunk into your lower lip, her eyes finding it, focusing as she lent forward even closer, breath ghosting over your skin.

“Hey, who’s this?”

An arm was slung around your shoulders, your friend, Rachel, leaning against you. Billie lent back, hand slipping to rest on your knee. You had to press your lips together to keep your whimper inside, not able to live down the thought of your friend hearing you.

“This is Billie, she’s uh… she’s a friend of mom’s,” you replied.

“Wait, shit, I know you. You’re that psychic off the tv,” Rachel said.

“Medium,” she replied, voice much colder than when it had been directed at you.

“You talk to ghosts and shit,” she said, voice loud from right beside your ear.

“I do,” she replied, tilting her chin up, looking down her nose at your friend.

“That’s crazy,” she said, “you actually think you’re talking to ghosts?”

“I am actually talking to ghosts,” she replied, sounding icier than you’d ever heard her.

“Crazy,” she said again, awed by her supposed insanity.

“Well, it was lovely seeing you,” she said to you.

She rose from the stool she’d been sitting in, leaving your heart thumping wildly. She gave you one lingering look before leaving you be with Rachel. Your friend swooped in, stealing her seat, leaning towards you with her forearms resting on the bar.

“Were you trying to go home with her?” she asked.

“What?” you laughed.

“Celebrity fucking. Are you in on it? Because if you are I think Matthew is winning on that front. He got a Kardashian,” she said, “but hey, I get it. You have to start somewhere. Work up to the big guns.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked, indignation beginning to rise.

“Start with some insignificant woman with a show before you move on to the hot ones. She’ll be easy, I bet. Probably a good ego boost to have someone so young pursuing her. I doubt she’s fucked anyone in ages,” she said before clicking to get the barman’s attention.

“I’m gonna…” You didn’t bother finishing your sentence before you walked off, leaving her to order more drinks.

Outside, you found her again, leaning against the wall, cigarette between fingers, smoke curling out of her mouth. You watched her for a moment, letting your eyes linger on the way her lips pursed, the clinging silk blouse, the long fingers brought to her mouth then away again.

“You’re staring,” she said.

“You’re beautiful,” you replied, then immediately worried you’d been too bold.

She turned to look at you, looking less than impressed at your answer. You clasped your hands together behind your back, not wanting her to see you fidgeting. You swallowed past the lump in your throat.

“I’m sorry about her,” you said, “I don’t think you’re crazy.”

“Many do,” she said.

“Billie,” you breathed out, stepping closer to her until the scent of her cigarette wrapped around you, “I don’t. I think there’s plenty out there we can’t explain and who am I to say if ghosts exist. What I do know is that I’ve been thinking about you since we met.”

She softened, turning her body towards you. You reached out, fingers brushing over the back of her hand. She stubbed her cigarette out on the wall, dropping it into the bin just behind you. In one motion, she curled her arm around your waist, pulling you closer until your body brushed against hers.

“And what have you been thinking when you think about me?” she asked.

“About how you taste,” you groaned.

She grasped your chin, acrylics digging in to the skin of your cheeks. She pulled you forward, breath ghosting over your lips. You finally let yourself whimper. Her smile stretched.

“How can I deny you, sweet girl?” she murmured.

Her lips brushed against yours, tantalising, almost teasing, barely there but making your heart pound and your knees grow weak. Your hands slid along her hips, wanting to pull her closer, wanting to feel her body against yours. She drew back, her hand still holding your chin, keeping you from leaning towards her again.

“How was that?” she asked.

You shook your head, trying to dip back in. She held you tight enough to make you whine, refusing to give you what you wanted.

“Use your words, sweet girl,” she said.

“More,” you whined, “I want more.”

The door to the bar opened, the chatter from inside leaking out. She looked over your shoulder at the couple leaving, a blank mask falling over her face. Dragging her eyes back to you, she softened again.

“Let me take you home, sweet girl,” she said, “say I can have you for the rest of the night.”

“Yeah,” you sighed, “you can have me as long as you want.”

“Careful or I might just end up keeping your forever,” she warned.

You were finding it hard to see that as a bad thing.

She called for a car, keeping one hand on your body, thumb stroking over skin until you were a trembling mess. In the back seat of the car, her hand was slow as it slid up your thigh, keeping up a conversation with the driver, practically ignoring you. You were biting down on your lip, trying to keep silent. Her eyes flashed over to you, glittering when she noticed your struggle. Her thumb passed so close to your heat if you’d shifted your hips just an inch, she could have been touching your panty covered core. Even with the material in the way, you were sure she’d be able to feel how wet you were.

The car pulled up outside a nice home, two stories and large enough for a family to live in. Billie held the door open for you to slide out, her hand settling on the small of your back, leading you up the porch. She pushed the door open, waiting for you to step inside.

“Would you like a drink, sweet girl?” she asked, closing the door.

You’d been expecting her to be on you the moment the door was closed, but instead all she did was trail her fingers along your shoulders before leaving you be. You followed behind, disappoint curling in your gut. Your eyes drifted down to her swaying hips, skirt only accentuating her figure.

She flicked on the light in her kitchen, a wide wall of windows staring back. You followed, not sure what else to do. Reaching above her head, she pulled down a wine glass, only one, before turning back towards you. Her eyes swept over you, from head to toe, smile curling up one corner of her lips.

“You didn’t answer,” she said.

“No.” You shook your head, “I think if I have any more you’ll be taking advantage of me.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” she replied.

She poured herself a glass of white wine, pulled straight from her fridge. She took a sip from it, watching you as she did. Her tongue dragged along her lower lip, catching a drop of stray wine. You made a small noise, her smirk only growing.

“Billie,” you whined, your self respect long since gone. All you wanted was her hands on your bare skin, not this waiting game she was forcing you to play.

“Yes, sweet girl?” she asked.

“Please,” you begged, “I need you.”

“Do you?” She raised an eyebrow at you.

“Yes.”

She placed her glass of wine down before taking a step towards you. With strong hands, she lifted you onto the counter, stepped between your parted legs. Her hands were sliding up the skin of your thigh, making you shiver.

“How’s this?” she asked.

“Uh huh,” you replied, beyond words just from her touch.

Her nose skimmed along your jaw, making your breath hitch. Your legs tightened around her, pinning her there as you whimpered. Her lips were soft as they pressed to your skin, head falling back to give her more access. Her tongue flicked out, tasting you with a soft hum. Your fingers clenched around the edge of the marble countertop, breath already ragged.

Her nails scraped along your skin, pushing up underneath your dress. You would have torn it from your body if she asked, uncaring of anything but giving her more access to you. Her teeth scraped along your skin before sinking in just enough for the sting to be pleasurable. Tongue swiping over it, you could feel her smile against your throat at the strangled noise you made. The way she sucked on your pulse point had your head growing fuzzy.

Your hands found their home on her shoulders, fingers curling as you tried to haul her closer. The throbbing between your legs was insistent but ignored by her. You wanted to reel her in, press against her, rub yourself against her like an animal. Her nails were scraping along your skin, drawing patterns on your skin in a way that had you shivering.

“Billie,” you gasped out, “please.”

“Sorry, sweet girl,” she murmured against your skin, “I can’t get enough of your taste.”

Her tongue swirled again, her soft sigh making you burn. Your fingers curled in her hair, tugging until you were leaning towards her, breath ghosting over her skin. She looked up from under eyelashes, coquettish and innocent, undone by the twist of her lips.

You kissed her, no longer just a brush of lips, all innocence gone. You groaned into her mouth, fingers tightening on blonde curls, tongue licking into her mouth. She allowed you, nails digging into your skin as you did your best to taste her, to explore, to delve deeper until you couldn’t remember what it was to not be kissing her. The taste of wine and cigarettes lingered on her tongue, something sweeter and deeper underneath.

You moaned, chasing her taste, wanting to burn it into your brain until nothing else remained. She was forcing your legs further apart, fingers on your inner thighs, stroking closer and closer to your heated core. She chuckled into your mouth when you whined, hips shifting, trying to urge her on.

Desperate lips trailed down your neck again, nipping at skin. Your fingers, still buried in her hair, clenched, pressing her closer, your pleas ignored as she took her time. Her teeth sunk in as her index finger ghosted over your centre. The noise that came from you had your cheeks heating before your embarrassment was washed away by the need for her touch.

Her finger stroked over you again, still over the top of your underwear. She was sucking another bruise onto your skin, her teeth and her tongue only making you desperate for more. Her finger pressed down, finding your clit through your panties. Her name was a strangled noise, back arching towards her.

“You’re so wet, sweet girl,” she said, “god, you’ve soaked right through.”

You whimpered as she continued to circle it, tortuously slow. She pulled back, eyes sweeping over your face, watching you. Her other hand slipped from under your dress, soft as it drifted up your body. You arched into her touch when she found your breast, begging her for more. She ignored you, hand continuing up until fingers rested on your throat, thumb stroking over the point she’d been sucking on before.

“Do you know how pretty you are?” she asked you, those dark eyes smouldering up at you, “you make such lovely noises for me.”

“Billie,” you whimpered, “Billie please.”

“I like when you beg, sweet girl,” she said, “do it again.”

“Please,” you whined.

“Good girl.”

That only made you tremble, heat coursing through you. From her delighted smile, she seemed to realise the effect her words had on you. Her fingers pushed aside your underwear, fingers swiping through your folds. The sound that came from you was high pitched, hips bucking up against her touch.

The hand around your throat tightened, for just a moment, long enough to make fire burn through you. She tugged you forward, kissing you, teeth sinking into your lower lip. You were aching for her, needing her more than you’d needed anyone before.

Fingers were slow to circle your clit, as if testing how far she could push you before she drove you insane. She drew back, watching you as your chest heaved, skin heating, eyes begging her for more. Lips pulled up into a smirk, the older woman slowing her movements until you felt tears prick in your eyes.

“You’re so pretty for me,” she said, “look how responsive you are. Such a good girl.”

“Billie,” you whined.

“I could watch you like this for hours,” she said.

“Please,” you begged, “please, Billie, I need-“

Her thumb ground against your clit, your words breaking off into a strangled moan. Her delight was enough to let you know you would be given no easy release. You tugged on her hair.

“Do you enjoy that, sweet girl?” she asked, so innocent, as if she wasn’t watching you fall apart in front of her.

Her thumb slipped from your clit, leaving you with the slow circling again, tortuous and maddening. You let out a shaky breath, fingers tightening in her blonde curls.

“I bet you taste sweet,” she murmured, “will you let me taste you, sweet girl?”

“Yes,” you babbled, “please. Oh god, please, Billie. I need you.”

Her hand slipped from your throbbing cunt, making you whine in protest. The hand resting around your throat slid down. Both tugged on the hem of your dress, dragging it up your body. You let her pull it from your body, flinging it aside as her eyes roved over your bare skin and lacy lingerie.

“Who did you wear these pretty things for, sweet girl?” she asked, finger running along the lace of your bra, “was there someone you were hoping would see these?”

“No,” you replied, feeling breathless.

“Don’t lie to me, sweet girl,” she warned.

Her dark eyes met yours and you could see it, swimming in her eyes, no matter how she was trying to hide it. The jealousy. The anger. The thought you’d dressed up for anyone but her. A sense of power flooded your body. To have such an effect on her, to make her feel that way, it was mind blowing for you.

“No one but you,” you said, tugging her closer, “I’ve been thinking of no one else since I met you.”

“You say such lovely things,” she said.

Her hands cupped your breasts, thumbs swiping over your nipples. Your breath stuttered and she lent down, lips ghosting along your skin. Her tongue dipped into the divot between your collarbones, stealing both your breath and your sanity. You moaned her name, arching towards her mouth.

Sliding her hands around your ribs, she unhooked your bra. Her lips continued down before wrapping around one nipple. Your mouth fell open around a silent moan. She wasn’t soft, her sharp suck making you tighten your fingers in her hair. Her tongue flicked over it, making you arch into her, asking for more.

Her nails scraped over your skin, down over your ribs, past the dip of your waist, over the curve of your hips. They hooked into your underwear, pulling them off you. Down your legs and flung aside, you did your best to help her, wanting that tongue where your throbbing heat was.

Lips trailed down your body, leaving your nipples behind despite your whimper. She took her time, lingering on every inch of skin she found. Her tongue would smooth over where her teeth scraped, heat following in her wake. You sighed at the first swipe of it through your folds. Your head fell back, fingers tightening in her hair. She hummed, pressing closer, tongue teasing your entrance.

She wrapped her lips around your clit, tongue flicking over it, then again when you moaned her name. It wasn’t going to take much, not from the way she’d been teasing you all night. And not from the way you’d been fantasising about her all week. The reality was much better than you could have imagined.

And in your imagination she’d been spectacular.

You gasped her name when she began to suck on your bundle of nerves, her hands pushing your legs even further apart. Spread out on her kitchen counter, face buried between your legs, feasting on you, it was as if all your dreams were coming true. She moaned, the vibrations rocketing through your body. Her name was a prayer on your lips and felt yourself coming apart. Her dark eyes looked up your body, catching yours and the way she was watching was like you were fulfilling all of her fantasies too.

The flat of her tongue pressed against your clit. You were writhing under her touch, begging her for release. Her fingers tightened on your thighs until you were sure she’d be leaving bruises for you to find the next day. She moaned again and it was enough.

If you were asked about it, you wouldn’t say you screamed her name, fingers tightening in her hair until you were pulling it. But you did. And she looked like the cat that got the cream because of it.

She cleaned you up with her tongue before she lent back, staring up at you, lips smirking. You pulled her up, kissing her with the kind of abandon you hadn’t let yourself have earlier. She chuckled into your mouth until your legs were tightening around her and your hands were sliding down her body and she began to moan.

“I want to touch you,” you murmured into her mouth, “please let me touch you.”

“I really can’t deny you anything,” she replied, pulling back, “perhaps somewhere comfortable though? I don’t bounce back like I once did.”

Her hand slipped into yours, helping you off the counter. Her eyes trailed over your body for a moment, appreciation filling her face as she took her time studying you. You flushed under her gaze, surprised by how much you liked her looking at you. Where usually you didn’t languish in nudity, the way she was staring made you feel powerful, desirable, stupidly sexy.

She led you further into the house, up the stairs, into a plush bedroom. The carpet underfoot was soft and the bed was huge. She sat on the edge of it, pulling you forward until you were stood between her legs. Leaning down, you threaded your fingers through her hair again, tilting her head up and kissing her until you felt her begin to relax.

You climbed onto her lap, knees either side of her hips. She hummed into your mouth, fingers trailing over your skin until the fire within you reignited. You pushed her back, feeling more than hearing the way she laughed against your lips.

“You’re so beautiful,” you whispered, drawing back to look down at her.

Her eyes brightened and there was a faint flush on her cheeks. Your fingers were careful as you began to unbutton her blouse, exposing tantalising inches of skin to your hungry gaze. Your tongue dragged along your bottom lip as you watched the silk slip from her shoulders. She pulled you down into another kiss, hot and insistent.

Your hands were gentle, fingertips trailing along her skin. It was so soft, and it only made you want more of her. With your tongue in her mouth, you reached behind her, unclasping the bra, pulling it from her body. You trailed your lips down, taking your time to worship every inch you came into contact with. Her fingers found their way into your hair, pressing you closer. You slid down her body, needing a better angle if you were to make her moan your name.

Your tongue tasted her skin, swirling over a nipple, smiling when you felt her arch up towards you. She murmured praise, practically a sigh. Your hands reached for her skirt, slow to unzip it and push it over her hips. She kicked it away before your hand ran up the outside of her thigh. You could feel her warmth practically radiating towards you.

“I can’t get enough of you,” you murmured into her skin.

“You feel so good, sweet girl,” she gasped when your lips made contact with her again.

You pushed her panties aside, slow to touch her, wanting to draw it out as long as possible. If you gave in too quickly you’d take too much. You wanted her falling apart, the way you had, until your name was burned on her tongue.

You collected her wetness, running a finger through her folds. Her breathing stuttered, chest heaving against your mouth. You circled her clit, slow as you lent back, watching her face contort in pleasure. Her lips were smiling, eyes fluttering shut. Your hand slipped down again, finger hovering at her entrance. She looked up at you again.

“Can I?” you asked.

“If you don’t, I’ll be sorely disappointed,” she replied, voice husky.

You smiled down at her, spread out beneath you. With strong hand you tore her underwear off, biting down on her pulse point. Your fingers found her entrance again, lingering just a moment before you pushed in, her arousal making it easier than you would have thought. A soft sigh fell through parted lips and her eyelids fluttered shut again.

Slowly pumping in and out of her you waited until her annoyed gaze found you again. You grinned, pressing a second finger in. You curled them and your name was nothing but a filthy moan on her lips.

You stroked her, thumb finding her clit again. She was writing under your touch, hips rocking against your hand, small noises coming from her. Her hands were fisting her comforter and there was a flush over her chest.

You watched her fall apart beneath you. Her internal walls clamped down on your fingers, your name a breathless sigh, fingers tightening, body going still. You eased her through it, drawing it out as long as you could. Her muscles relaxed, looking up at you with a sleepy smile. You removed your hands from between her legs, tongue lapping at your fingers, tasting her on your skin.

Her eyes began to smoulder, looking up at you. With grasping hands she pulled you down, unbalancing you until both your hands landed either side of her head, catching your weight before you crushed her. She drew you down into a kiss, stealing your breath, sending your head reeling all over again.

“You’re a dream, sweet girl,” she murmured against your lips, “I’m never letting you go.”

You kissed her again before rolling off her, sitting on her plush comforter. Her fingers trailed up your bare thigh, making you shiver under her touch.

“Are you tired?” she asked, voice low, like a whisper caressing over your skin.

“No,” you replied.

“Then let me wear you out, sweet girl.”

When you woke in the morning, the bed was empty, still warm under your touch and more comfortable than the twin bed you’d been sleeping in for the last few months. You sat up, stretching your aching body before brushing the sleep from your eyes. The slant of light said it was late morning. Unsurprising, given Billie had kept you up until the early hours of the morning. The scent of coffee was on the air and you smiled, hearing someone moving downside.

You hunted through the room, finding a soft cashmere sweater. Pulling it on, it hit mid thigh, just enough to cover you but not enough to not be tempting to the insatiable woman. On bare feet you padded down the stairs. Rounding the banister, following your nose, you practically skipped into the kitchen.

You stumbled to a halt, finding a familiar face staring back at you, eyes widening in surprise. Billie turned in her seat, lips quirking up into a smile as her eyes swept over your body.

“Mom?”

You felt your face heat up, taking a step back. She was sitting at the kitchen island, the exact island you’d been sitting on, naked, just a few hours before.

“Darling, what are you doing here?” she asked, “did you spend the night here?”

“Uh…” You looked to Billie, not sure how to answer, “yeah I did.”

“I hope you didn’t bother Billie. She was meant to meet me this morning but when she didn’t show up I had to come hunt her down,” she said.

“She was no bother,” Billie replied, smiling at you over the rim of her coffee cup.

“I thought I was interrupting you after a wild night of passion,” your mother laughed, “with all those clothes scattered around your kitchen.”

“I should… go,” you said, not wanting to think about Billie telling your mother about your night with her.

Only your clothes were bundled up on the counter and you had no way of getting them without making it clear Billie’s night of passion had included you.

“You didn’t interrupt them, did you darling?” she asked, a tinkling laugh tacked on to the end.

“Hardly,” Billie replied.

Your mother was smiling at you and you were frozen and Billie was being no help. You stared helplessly back before your mother’s eyes darted to Billie then the pile of clothes then back to you. You held your breath.

“Darling, you didn’t,” she sighed.

“I… It wasn’t…” You didn’t know how to even begin to end those sentences.

“It appears as if we’ve been busted,” Billie said.

She stood from her barstool, sauntering towards you. Looping an arm around your waist, she pulled you into her body, brushing some of your hair behind your ear. It was so tender, nothing like the seduction you’d experienced the night before. Still, you shivered, her touch enough to set you off.

“If you were jealous of me having a friend there were more productive ways of going about getting my attention,” your mother said, interrupting your moment.

“What?” You looked over to her.

“We could have just had a conversation, darling,” she said.

“You think I…” It was hard to wrap your head around, “do you seriously think I slept with Billie to get your attention?”

“What other possible reason could you have?” she asked.

You felt Billie stiffen against you. You curled your arm around her, wanting to shield her from your mother’s accusations. Glaring at her, you hardened.

“Maybe because I wanted to. God, Mom, not everything is about you,” you said.

“Alright, I’ll play along with your little fantasy,” she said, giving you one of those indulgent smiles you remembered from childhood, “but darling, until you choose to grow up and act like an adult, not everyone is going to be so forgiving.”

“I think you should go,” you said, voice hardening.

“Why on earth would I do that, darling?” she asked.

“Because I’m hoping Billie will fuck me over the top of that counter your sitting at and it’ll be a little awkward if you’re still here when she does,” you replied.

Your mother’s face blanched of colour and she was quick to climb to her feet, muttering something about another meeting she had to get to as she hustled out of there. Billie didn’t bother saying anything, only watching her leave as you kept her close to you. The door slammed behind her retreating back.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” she murmured.

“Do what?” you asked, looking down at her, “I’m free all day and would quite like it if you fucked me on every available surface in this house.”

She kissed you, long and deep, laughing into your mouth. You pulled her closer, your hands finding her hips as you guided her into the kitchen, pressing her against the kitchen island.

“If you do, I’ll return the favour,” you said.

“You don’t have to convince me,” she murmured, “I’d do anything you asked of me, sweet girl.”

And so she did.

[marchsfreakshow]

Familiarities Upon Death [James Patrick March]

Angst

James' relationship with you faded to one resemblancing his relationship with The Countess. He had to indulge in his childish need for you. No matter your reaction. No matter what it took.

James may be a simp but he also likes his murder. You can all blame 'I Love You Like An Alcoholic' for this. Also, possibly my longest fic ever! Go me.

Warnings: dead dove!! descriptions of cuts, James being gross<3

No one's perspective

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

If you had put The Countess and you in a room together, you likely ended up discussing James. She did not love the ghost. She never did. You always did. You forever had his undead heart.

Yet the relationship wavered. It wavered all too similarly. James could feel his heart break again. He couldn't face this. He couldn't. Not again.

How many hearts did he have to leave at your door? How many notes did he have to scribble on his napkins? How many flowers did he have to get Liz or Iris to order for you? How much murder did he have to get through, just to get you? You modern, stubborn, darling, annoying thing!! Were you trying to torture him??

"Darling I have managed to order one of your favourite meals."

"My dear, I noticed this dress on a visitor so I killed her and had the dress washed for you. Please enjoy it."

"My hummingbird, what books do you enjoy nowadays?"

Question after question. Need after need. Physical affection halted. Just holding your fingers. Holding your hand against his lips was all he wanted. It would feed his desperation for you for months. All he wanted was a look. One measly look into your eyes. One small glint of hope that your relationship with the ghost had not fallen into his one with Elizabeth.

He came to accept that he once again had his heart broken. His ghostly void of a heart. Deader inside than it was before.

"James?" Your voice rang. Like a fire stoked after so long of ice. The killer was scrambling at your feet like a clingy puppy. Milking and lapping up the noise of his name leaving your lips. Still as wonderful, still as ethereal as ever. Yet he stayed silent. Don't say anything stupid now James, you'll ruin this opportunity. "Can you murder someone for me?"

"Yes. Yes of course my dear." James's voice was suddenly shaky, standing up and holding your hands to his chest. His free hand around the small of your back, like he had craved to do for so many weeks. "Name who and it will be done."

"Me."

Eye contact like none before. Was what you were asking true? Did you want him to be your murderer? Truly? "D-dear?"

"Kill me, James." You stated. "Whether or not you want theatrics, it's your choice."

There was a stunned silence from the ghost in front of you. For 5 minutes, the silence continued. His response was an uncharacteristic quiet and nervous answer. "Why? Why my dear? Why must you crave death when you are so loved by family outside this drab heap?" Almost rushed, worried. James had never been so rushed with his words. The usually calm, collected man was a mess in front of you. Desperate for you to be living your life. The most odd statement for him to think. What was he thinking? He wanted you with him 24/7, obviously, but you were so accomplished already in life, and offers were at your feet.

Even an offer to still live but have a blood-loving virus instead. She had offered gracefully and didn't expect an answer at once. Gave you time to think. Yet, The Countess waited still. She awaited an answer with lowering patience. Any new day, and she might've killed you herself or turn you anyway. Enjoyed the nectarine that kept you alive. The liquid was a rush of endorphins for the woman.

"Because I don't want that life, James. I need that life like I need a ton of bricks heaping upon me." Your eyes never broke his when you spoke your words calmly, and rationally. "I need you like I need a ton of bricks heaping upon me."

The ghost could only look worried and almost scared at your sentences. What on earth were you saying? What was this nonsense you had drilled into your mind? "...were my gifts not enough my bird? Were the..the.. darling meals I offered not enough?" He stammered his way through the cries. The pleas to keep you alive. Why, any other time you may have offered yourself, James would create a theatre performance out of it. An erotic performance. Looking into your eyes was nothing but a confirmation. "...as you wish my hummingbird." You dropped yourself out of his hold.

Walking yourself into your room. James followed close by, stalking you the way he had in the shadows for weeks on weeks. Your demand was simply insane, and it was nonsense in his head. Possibly the only person he never wanted to murder. He never wanted to lay his blade on your skin in any way. Whether you asked it from him so you could cum or not. That one, singular dress he stole for you, laid on your bed. Bare and blue. The navy glistened still under the barely dim light. Yet you could find his eyes still. "Will...you put the dress on for me my dear?" He asked, hesitantly. Blade twirling his fingers nervously. This was unlike the killer you knew. He was nervous, stammering, fiddling with his weapon. Scared? No, no. Of course, he wasn't scared. Was he?

The rustling of clothes brought him out of raging thoughts. The fabric he had laid bare for you, suddenly clinging to your skin. It still reeked of iron and floral perfume. The unflattering combation wafting into your nose, as it moved with you. "You are stuck in that dress forever when I do this. You understand that my darling?"

"Don't talk down to me. I know what the fuck I'm doing." You seethed back, just wanting this over with. Defiance was never something James took kindly to.

"You, my dear, speak to me like that again, your death will not be quick and simple like you desire."

"Just get it over with James." You snapped. Did you really hate him that much? Did you realise despise the killer so much you didn't want to enjoy this process?

The silence appeared for almost a strangling minute. Strangling for one word from either of you. James dared not speak his plan to you. It would only annoy you further. Only make your desire for a quick death stronger.

Instead, he simply knocked you out. Let you fall to the ground with a hard thump. As much as he loved you, James didn't like people speaking back to him. You were not an exception anymore.

Tying you down to wherever he could, the ropes tight. Tight to squeeze hard at your wrists and ankles. The circulation soon going dead, numbed by fibre keeping you upright. Instead of that dazzling, navy blue dress you wore, you were naked. Left only in whatever underwear you were wearing. A sight to behold. A sight James enjoyed all too much. He would take you now if it weren't for his respect for your body. Tugs at your wrist as you slowly woke from unconsciousness. Dingy dusk meeting your glazed, tired eyes. Blinking and gathering your bearings. Another tug. Wait? What was happening? "James?" You asked hoarse. Squirming in place against the cold metal table. Yeesh! Talk about freezing! "James, what am I doing on here?" You asked again.

Silence still.

Alright, you were starting to get a bit scared now. "J-James?" A wavering voice, a quivering lip. No! Get yourself together! It's simply...a little foreplay...you deluded yourself into thinking. Foreplay. That's all this was.

"I had given you plenty of time my dear." The muffled voice became louder as the steps grew closer. "Theatrics are what I desire from you. Love and obedience. It is a simple request yes?"

A moment of silence between the two of you. He took your silence as the answer.

"It seems even that could not be obtained from you. She has poisoned you against me." Ah, his childishness. Pettiness. The Countess hadn't done anything to you. Not yet anyway. "And the fact you decided to come to me for this murder, only means that I will continue to claim you." His needs to claim and want like a petulant child! It was annoying to no end. Always found yourself on the brink of yelling at the ghost to shut the fuck up for once. You wanted to rip that mask off of James and slice his lips off. Bash his teeth out so he knew how dreadful it was to be silenced. How much it was despised.

You kept your lips shut. You shut yourself up and did not speak another word. Speaking out fear would only encourage James to take his time. It would only increase his lust for your screams. Fuck this. You tugged. You pulled and panted as you struggled. If you didn't know any better, you'd think James was getting hard from this scenario. Loving the way your chest moved as your breathing increased. How shaky your legs were looking. How terrible the grip was your hands had, on nothing. A lulled head as your struggles became useless. Obviously, it was useless. That logic became clear enough within the first few seconds of your attempt to free yourself.

A bittersweet kiss on your quivering lips. Murdering fingers finding your jaw and holding your head up. "Even when you are struggling you are still ethereal my dear." Damn this man to all hell. He was in love and lust and obsession. A disgusting killer who murdered dozens. Still murders dozens. The thought that he carved a soul out of every person who passed him by...just to leave it in your room for your next visit. Deranged and manic. Nothing but pure insanity.

"fuu...fuck you.." Your words were tired, lifeless already.

"I have given you ample opportunities to do so my dear. Yet you never reciprocate."

A harsh silence fell yet again. It lingered in the room for what felt like hours. It stung with every breath leaving your lungs. Harsh and continuing reminders of the predicament you were stuck in. The ghostly killer who loved you so, prepared to torture your unfaint heart. Of course, you were used to grim, unfair and macabre ways of life. No one gets anywhere by playing fair, do they? You certainly didn't. You never played by the rules or played fair with others close by. Ticking and slipping cuts, wages and skin here. There. Everywhere.

However, it seemed all for nought at this point. Only to become an unwilling cherry on top of James' list of loves and lusts. Just where he wanted you.

Your voice was worn eventually. Your shaking had not quit. Your head lulled again. Yet, he was just starting. Cuts that covered your arms. Dripping the blood down the side of your body. Warm red liquid making you shiver and squirm as it slowly eased out of the spliced skin. Such beautiful skin. If only you had loved James back the way he wanted you to. Useless, heavy breaths that never deterred your killer of a lover. His cuts started with a dull, rusty blade. A 'J' on your palms. Jagged and unfit letters now etched into your hand. Swift, sharp gashes in random directions on your forearms, making small cries and screams leave those pretty kissable lips of yours. A quick repeat on your other arm. Oh, it was like a work of art... truly it was. Such decorated arms, bleeding red, never-ending. It might've killed you just then. "Determined to live aren't you?"

"Please... please James. Please. I'll be good, I'll love you the way you want again. Please just stop."

Oh no no no no...no..you sweet thing. That wasn't good enough anymore. Nope. Your sweet sobs and begs wouldn't get you anywhere anymore. Despite how much James wanted to kiss those cuts he made and love you eternally. "You said you wanted to die, and die you shall." His voice was still calm, cool and collected. How could a man like James go from a whining, needy man-child, to a tall-standing, confident killer? Oh right. Because he was obsessed with you. You were all he craved. Now you had ruined it. You didn't love him anymore. And it broke him into more pieces he couldn't pick up. Spending years scraping the bottom of the barrel for affection from James. Yet now, he didn't feel a need for that from you.

The rusty blade teasing your throat, pushing slightly against that pressure point needed. Only for a moment. Breathing heavy and... almost a whine escaping you once it was pulled from your neck. "Desperate for the release death will bring my pet... You are more naïve than I believed."

Large, unkind slashes to your legs. One after the other, never stopping until James was satisfied. He was never satisfied. Your constant, tired and weepy gaze on him. Sniffling nothing as you pouted those spit-covered, pretty red lips of yours. You looked like you were teasing him, not on purpose of course. You were naturally a sobbing, drivelling mess right now. And it could not have pleased your killer more. "Do not look so prettily upon me my dear, you may make me feel bad." He hummed nonchalantly, dragging the tip of the blade up your cervix. One long cut, making a horrible, rusty mark against the underwear you wore. Yet, it still split, and cold, uncaring air was swiftly met.

The cuts to your torso were different. He couldn't do as you probably well pleased, since any cut would mean death. And he wanted to kill you how he killed himself. The sweet slice to your neck. Making blood splatter and splutter down your body, covering James as it sprayed. Convulsing and screams, whimpers escaping you. Your death was approaching faster than expected. And James had decided to once again give you a kiss. Taking his, frankly, attractive, mask off and holding your bloody chin up. Lost eyes not focusing. You were colder. You couldn't tell your surroundings. "I knew you would die beautifully my darling." He faintly whispered. Cold lips meeting fleeting warmth. Oh, he loved kissing you. Even if that kiss was one pressed to your now corpse.

Death was different. It wasn't heaven or hell like Christians described. It wasn't like a waiting room like your parents described. It wasn't like a meeting with a hooded skeleton and a ride to the underworld like your sibling described. It was cold. Silent. Unloved. Black and nothing. It had consumed you whole. Eaten you like a starving man would any bug he could find on the street. Death was uncaring like the living world was. It didn't care what you were in life. An angel to others or a nuisance running amok, you were all consumed. Taken wholly by a void that rarely spat you back out. If it did, you were a ghost. The soul that couldn't be kept down.

The running void consumed you for 10 minutes. 15, tops. James was almost worried you were not about to ghost the place he needed you to call home. He stood and observed. Watched your corpse become cold and rigid. You died so beautifully. All the ghostly killer did was stand and watch. He watched, frozen in place. Was your soul even that upset at the other? Maybe he should weaken himself for your soul to appear. "Dear...you do realise I need you still yes? Come on. I am aware of you.." he urged your stiff body. Minutes passed. The ticking of his internal clock was growing more invasive, more panicky as he had not seen a shift of your soul yet. "This is not a game my pet, come to me. Now."

Your soul appeared eventually. Slumped on your knees by your rotting body. Rubbing your eyes like a sleepy child, before gathering your bearings and looking up at James. Sudden memories hitting your head and a cowering whimper escaping you. He took notice of the noise and looked down at you. Throwing his mask to the side as he scooped your ghost up, and laid you out on the scratchy sheets. Too much movement for someone who just spent 15 minutes in a void. "J-James..stop.." you urged quietly as he placed kisses over you. Over your face, your neck, clavicle. Every single little cut on your body he kissed. It wasn't soothing despite what he thought. It wasn't sweet and loving like he so craved. "Stop!"

His eyes became worried and wide as he pulled himself away from your thigh. "Dear?" The ghost was clingy. Horribly clingy.

"Can you give me like 5 fucking seconds before you try and fuck my ghost?"

"b-but darling-"

"James! Give. Me. A. Fucking moment. Understand me?" He cowered again, scared to lose you again. A nod as a response as James got up and left the room without another word. Instead of walking down to his room and having a drink, he stood patiently outside your door and waited. He would wait for the rest of eternity. If he had to.

Your legs were shaky. You explored yourself in the mirror. Dried blood making your skin tinged a little bit. "god..." The whisper leaving you as your arms were practically wound after wound. Your legs as well. The wounds were a physical reminder of the fact your killer was your lover.

You wanted this. You wanted to die here.

But not like this. Not this way. Not with two 'J' 's on your palms, reminding you of the man outside your door. Blinking, you tore away from the mirror, refusing to face yourself anymore.

There, on the bed, laid your clothes before you died, and the dress you were offered so generously. Either way, you were going commando for the rest of time, and then some, so both options were uncomfortable in some way. A sweater and jeans it was. The clothes rustled as they fit you snugly. "Fuck...fuck!!" Emerged from your lips as you paced around the room. "Ohhhh fuck this. This fucking...shitty...bullshit!!" Every word that left you only served as a reminder that you wanted to die. Needing to remind yourself that you were the one who asked to be killed. Unsatisfied with your life and the people in it.

James decided to step into your room now, clicking his tongue disapprovingly. "I thought I taught you to not swear my dear."

"Fuck you!" You started, immediately getting up in James' face without an issue. Practically stomping around him as the harsh words dug into the soul's head and heart. "Fuck you, you fucking prick. 1920s fucking... serial killer. God, you're so hot you annoy the shit out of me! Seriously, why the fuck did you have to fucking kill me this way you fucker?! I expected one fucking slash to the neck, done deal!!"

The ghost, of course, was used to such theatrics from you and stood patiently. Waiting for you to stop spitting venom onto his feet as you circled him. Your words stopped, and he held you again. James simply took you by your waist, holding you tight against him. His hand on the small of your back, his other hand holding yours. Reminiscent of when you asked him to kill you. Bringing you flush against his chest. The angry mutters became silent sniffles and pathetic tears. Blinking and looking up at the killer you adored, hated.

"I fucking hate you."

"No, you don't hate me."

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

Tags: @babygorewhore / @taintandviolent / @oceanblvd111 / @nahoyasboyfriend / @coentinim / @slutforgarlogan / @briaroftheroses @am3ricanh0rrorwh0re /. @evanpeterspeter / @feefymo / @fear-is-truth / @lacucarachapisser / @marchsfreak / @saintlucretia / @jazz-berry / @t8-ak47

[l0serloki]

Showtime

JPM x Reader

Summary : You and Liz brainstorm how to spice things up in the bedroom with your husband.. It is a definite success.

CW : SMUT, fem!reader, reader calls james ‘mr.march’, spanking, choking, praise kink, pet names (queen/doll/dear/good girl), biting & marking, rough sex, creampie

A/N : this might not be great but I was rewatching hotel and his cane gave me ideas... 

It had been quite a while since you and Liz had a talk. You settled down to gossip with your close friend. 

“Y/N, it’s been a while. I thought you would have forgotten about me.” Liz smirked.

“How could I ever! I’ve just been so busy with James and the new.. arrivals. Devil’s Night was such a chore.” You droned on, complaining about how much screaming there was over the course of the night.

“Well that’s to be expected. How are you and James anyways?” 

How were you and James? You were fine, splendid actually, but something seemed off. You had thought about it quite a lot this week, coming to the conclusion you needed something to spice up your sex life.

“Good! I just.. I don’t know.” You shrugged and Liz gave you the side eye, setting her book on the counter.

“You don’t know? Darling, are you alright?” 

You nodded as she took your hands, giving them a tight squeeze.

“Yes! Don’t worry! I just want to.. spice things up with him. I feel as though he will get bored of me. I want to get something nice for him but I can’t think of what.” 

Liz tapped her lips with a pen, her eyes raising as she thought of an idea.

“Y/N, have you ever worn any fancy lingerie for him? Maybe put on a little show?” 

Your mind sparked with the idea and you shook your head.

“No! Where would I even get that? That would be perfect.” 

Liz waved you away from the kiosk, already getting to planning.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get you a nice set to surprise your dear Mr.March.”

—

Liz had done exactly what she promised, going out and buying quite a lovely lingerie set for you. It framed your body perfectly, only adding to your confidence. You slipped your casual clothes over the garments, making your way down the hall. You knew James would be busy with his plans for next year's event.

Your fingers curled around the doorknob, opening it to meet your husbands face. You jumped at the proximity, not expecting him to be so close.

“My dear! I was just coming to fetch you.” His smooth accent sailed through the air, sending currents down your spine. Your finger trailed at his suit hoping to give him the same reaction. 

“Were you? Guess I have good timing then.. Mr.March.” You trailed around his form, hands feeling up the taut muscles. His body shook with excitement from the teases, hands coming to clamp down on your wrists.

“Yes.. It seems you were longing for me as much as I was for you.” His suave smirk made heat pool in your stomach, hands starting to roam your shirt. Your breath quickened as his fingers trailed under the the material. His eyes widened when he pawed at the lace that was hidden.

“My my.. What is it that my dear doll has on?” He frisked away at your shirt, abandoning it on the floor without a care. His chestnut hues wracked in the sight of your ample flesh dawned with the silky lace. His wild smile only added to your carnal desire, making you tremble with pleasure.

“You like it? It’s all for you, Mr.March.” 

His deep hum filled the silence. 

“I do, dear. This is quite the surprise. Step out of those pants and bend over so I can see the whole thing.” His voice was dark and filled with lust. You knew exactly where this was headed. 

You followed instructions, popping your ass out so he could get the full view of your body. You felt as if you were on fire. His eyes followed your every curve, searing it into his memory. His rough hand gripped at his cane, holding back at what he wanted.

“You’ve given me such a good present, my pretty girl. I can’t believe you would hide this from me. I think you deserve a punishment, no?” 

You could only moan in response, desperate for any kind of touch he could give you. He seemed to like your response, shoveling you against the desk. Your perky ass was still stuck out for him, waiting for his move. You waited for what felt like forever until a long smack hit. Your breath left your mouth as you shook, your ass cheeks swelling against the wood. The metal tip of his cane brushed at your entrance, prodding at the wet spot on your panties.

“Someone enjoys being spanked with a cane? What a naughty girl..” James laughed, your squirming not going unnoticed. His hand smacked against your sore cheek and you bounced at the contact.

“Be good and take a few more. Then we can get to the fun part.” 

You nodded as he continued his assault on your ass, tears welling in your eyes at the pain and pleasure. Your body was practically screaming for him, arousal pooling on your thighs. 

His cane hit for the last time and then he was everywhere at once. His greedy hands yanked at your ruined panties, revealing your poor pussy. 

“God. I need you!” You moaned out as his fingers teased across your thighs, coming dangerously close to your entrance. His thumb pressed against your slick, making a mess of you. He toyed your clit, rubbing at it a few times before puling away. You groaned at the loss of contact, turning to see why he had stopped. James fumbled with his belt, hands jittering with energy. He gave you a grin, lips licking at the arousal on his finger,

“My queen, you’ve been so obedient tonight.. I shall give you what you wish.”

James’ cock rubbed against your folds, slowly pushing in. It felt as if everything else faded as he bottomed out, his calloused hands coming to grip at your neck. His thrusts gained pace as your moans got louder, alerting anyone near his room of what you were up to.

He was animalistic. Lips biting and marking at your skin, smacks blown across any flesh he could reach. His other hand choked you out, watching from the side as your eyes grew larger.

You felt your air leaving as his pace went erratic, the string inside you so close to snapping.

“I-I’m gonna cum. So close, baby.” You strangled out.

James snarled, his hands rough enough to leave marks for the next few days. His cock twitched inside of you, egging you on.

“Cum. Cum for me, darling.” He goaded and you did as told, eyes rolling back at the euphoria he gave. His ruts finally stopped and thick ribbons of white filled you. 

You spun around and snorted at your husbands tired face. He leaned in to kiss the top of your nose, hands pulling you into an embrace.

“That was a night to remember, dear. We should do this more often.”

[7-wonders]

Requiem

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

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

Word Count: 6.3k

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

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

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

Mad Love Masterlist

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

“She gonna help us?” she asks warily.

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

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

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

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

“Welcome back,” Mallory says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You haven’t won,” Mallory says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do. You’re going to betray me?

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

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

“That’s ridiculous,” Michael says.

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

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

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

“Ms. Mead?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mallory, I’m scared,” you admit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

•••

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mallory!” Michael gasps. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tempus Infinituum.”

•••

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

ALSO the Jeff and Mutt thing is canon!

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

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

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

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

[ghostfacesvalentine]

Obsessed - James Patrick March x Fem!Reader

Pairing: James Patrick March x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Nsfw, fem rec. oral, slight overstimulation, not much else.

Type: Headcanon

Request: Can I get uhhh... first time with James Patrick March from AHS? //^^// but only if you want to! If you don’t then just ignore this! I live your writing anyway! 💞✨

Word Count: N/A

Prompt: First time with James Patrick March!

Notes: This only took me four years, but I got to it didn’t I :))) Okay so I wasn’t specified whether it’d be hc or a one shot so I just went ahead and went with hc! If you’d like a one shot feel free to send it in!

♡ James becomes completely and utterly devoted to you the moment he sees you.

♡ When he finds out that you’re as innocent as a hummingbird, it only furthers his obsession with you.

♡ He’s always smothering you

♡ James always makes sure you’re not hungry or cold or missing anything really. Almost to the point that it’s kind of annoying, a little bit.

♡ Anytime he sees you, he greets you with lots and lots of kisses, kissing your hands repeatedly and up your arms shamelessly.

♡ He will not hesitate to treat you like a goddess, mark my words.

♡ His attention is 110% on you, literally has tunnel vision when it comes to you.

♡ If you ask him to take your virginity, then you better brace yourself because he sure as hell didn’t.

♡ The question would truly shock him.

♡ “Why Y/N. It’d be my soundest of pleasures.”

♡ Of course he would take the whole day to make this as special as he possibly could for you.

♡ He’d occupy the best room in the Cortez for the time, as always but this time with no interruptions.

♡ James would make sure it was flawlessly elegant, the most beautiful of drapery and matching bed duvet. 

♡ Room service would be ordered in for whatever your liking. He’d even order in some fresh strawberries and champagne for the special night.

♡ Honestly at first, he’d let you make the initial move.

♡ Though he’s super eager, he knew it was a big deal and he wants to make sure this is what you’re ready for.

♡ You kiss him first, which as he describes it, is “an electrifying experience”

♡ He remains soft with you though, kissing you back gently. He was holding back for sure, it was by no means easy though.

♡ But when you begin to kiss him more hungrily, he kind of loses it a little.

♡ His kisses become a bit more desperate, but still with love, to the point where you do have to pull away for air.

♡ He’s so intoxicated by the way that you smell, your taste, your touch. He’s ready to devour you right where you are.

♡ He takes his time in placing you on the bed, delicately taking off your clothes, placing soft and gentle kisses on the parts your skin became exposed.

♡ Taking note of what you like and what you don’t like. It exhilarates his behavior to watch you tremble.

♡ He gives you your first hand job, making sure your wetness soaks his hands, he doesn’t even know if he’s scissoring his fingers in your cunt for himself or for you.

♡ Watching your head fall back in pleasure is everything to him, he even tilts your chin forward to look at him as tears well in your eyes.

♡ James twists and turns his fingers in you, a sinful smile never leaving his lips, as the time slipped away, he became hungrier for you.

♡ Your pleasure brought a desperation James hadn’t seen in decades.

♡ He’s obsessed with your pleasure, it brings a euphoria to him in a similar way that killing does.

♡ Once he’s rubbed all your slick against your folds, he starts to lap at your core. His arms hook under your legs to bring you closer to him.

♡ I’m obsessed with the idea of him kneeling in the most uncomfortable position but so desperate to eat you out that he’s just there in place in bliss as your arousal drenches his face.

♡ He can be there for hours. He doesn’t really talk you through an orgasm, but when you feel yourself clenching up, he continues his pace, with a hand on your breast, squeezing it gently as you rock your hips against his face.

♡ You apologize because you have no idea what happened but he’s not listening like at all.

♡ He does this over and over until you are practically weeping.

♡ When he first enters you, he has you on your back, looking right at him already succumbed into pleasure.

♡ You’re so lost in your orgasms that it didn’t sting when he entered you, in fact he wished he could record this moment for his own pleasure.

♡ Your eyelids half closed in bliss, he didn’t take long to pick up the pace, still quietly assuring himself that you weren’t in any pain.

♡ It didn’t take long for you to cum again, allow me to speculate that seeing your coat of white on his dick sends him over the edge.

♡ He keeps fucking the orgasm out of you. All you could do is lay back and brace yourself. You can grab and pull and scratch at him all you want, he’s pounding you into the mattress.

♡ Id say James has a pretty decent tolerance so it’s going to be a long night of orgasms after orgasms.

♡ Mr. “Are you aware that the average woman is capable of 8 orgasms in a single session?”

♡ You’re not even capable of responding, barely able to comprehend what the whole sentence was and that only drives him to keep going.

♡ The picture of you helpless, covered in juices of arousal, twitching in pleasure and eyes rolling back in bliss. He’s obsessed. And he caused all of this.

♡ This is your first time but he’s treating you like a toy, he’s so desperate to see you like this. Normally he’d try all kinds of positions but since it is your first time, he wants to see how much you’re capable of.

♡ He’s kind of infatuated with the view and of course it boosts his ego in a demented sense. It’s not until you start crying out that you can’t take it anymore.

♡ He’s cautious at first, getting to know your limits, but give it some time he’ll encourage you to keep taking it because he knows you’re capable.

[hstylesloverr]

YOUNG LOVE.

evan peters x model!yn

warnings: mentions of the show “dahmer”??, age gap

-

evanupdates via instagram post

liked by ynfan1, username, evanfan and more

evanupdates “ The funny thing is, when I was offered the part to play Dahmer, I seriously considered turning it down. You know, I didn't think I could measure up. Yes, I had done something similar in American Horror Story, but trying to tell an event as horrific as Dahmer's life and what he did to his victims in such an explicit and realistic way? I really thought I wasn't up to the task. I told my girlfriend that I had been offered a big role and that I was thinking about whether or not to turn it down. She asked me what it was about and well, I told her what the series was about a bit. Then she looked me straight in the eye and simply said, "You have to accept this role."

[…]

Yes, I really think I couldn't have done it without the support I got from the whole team and especially from my girlfriend. You know, she would sit with me every afternoon and we'd spend hours and hours watching documentaries and Dahmer movies, reading police reports, newspapers from the time, whatever. The support I had from her was truly something I will always be grateful for. ”

- Evan talking about the process of accepting his character in the new netflix publicity interview.

view comments

username y/n is the most supportive girlfriend

evanfan2 i love that he’s getting the recognition he deserves, i hope he wins an emmy for his excellent performance

username imagine calling y/n l/n your girlfriend

ynfan evan please come back to ig 😭

username girl literally evan's instagram seemed like a y/n fan account 😭😭😭

evanfan he looks so dilf 😭 @ yourinstagram make our dreams come true

username i love him so so much please 🥲

username i can't express in words how attracted i am to this man.

ahsfan what did i miss? 😭 last time i checked evan was dating emma

ynfan6 girl they broke up in 2015 😭😭😭 you missed a lot

username @ ynfan6 but y/n and evan weren't already dating in 2010? i'm a new fan i’m a lot confused

evanfan9 those were just rumours! y/n and evan were nothing more than close friends until 2016, where they started dating, but they always kept the relationship very private because they were heavily criticized for the age difference

-

yourinstagram via instagram post

liked by ynfan1, username, harrystyles, kendalljenner and more

yourinstagram posing for the camera as if i just weren’t traumatized.

view comments

username god i wish i looked this pretty being traumatized

ynfan she’s unreal

evanfan3 evan’s a lucky man tbh

honeymoon Pretty girl 💖

username did u liked the show?

yourinstagram i honestly had a really bad time watching it, especially knowing that it’s based on real events. however, i loved the effort and dedication that everyone involved in it put into it.

harryfan1 i'm sick of Harry liking all of this girl's posts 😭

yourinstagram me too

harrystyles Rude.

username @ harryfan1 girl they have been friends since 2015 ? besides, she already has a boyfriend

username she’s an icon she’s a legend and she is the moment

evanfan7 please please please convince evan to get an ig account again 😭

yourinstagram bestie i’ve been trying for 2 years

kendalljenner You look so hot ugh

arianagrande 🤍🤍

ahsfan we all know who took this photo

username i really think evan's gallery is full of silly photos of y/n😅😅 but who knows maybe he hides his photography skills

ynfan5 the most beautiful woman in the world for a reason

evanscult00 i'm literally in love with herrr evan be careful because you and i aren’t friends

-

ynupdates via instagram post

liked by username, ynfan1, ynfan9, evanfan and more

ynupdates CUTIES 🥹! Y/N and her boyfriend, Evan Peters, in a pub tonight in Paris.

view comments

evanfan no bc this is like the first pic we have of evan IN MONTHS i'm not complaining anyway i love this couple so much

username they both look so happy and comfortable

ynfan1 i want what they have

evanfan2 please they’re such dilf and milf material

username stylish girlfriend 🤝 “i don't care what to wear” boyfriend

evanfan7 will she know all the people who want to be her right now?

evandyn evan said that he was very insecure with girls and that he needed them to be patient with him 😭😭😭 seeing how happy he is with y/n makes me sensitive

ahsfan5 they were written by taylor swift i don’t make the rules

username THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER??? i'm playing lover in my head

ahsfan5 YES YES they also give many cigarettes after sex vibes

-

ynthrowbacks via instagram post

liked by username, evanfan, ahsfan and more

ynthrowbacks Evan Peters, Y/N’s boyfriend, 10 years ago today.

username she looks so fetus

evanfan1 I love them so much and I really hope to have a relationship as pure as theirs one day

ynfan7 ok but can we talk about the fact that they are 9 years apart?

username !! it always seemed very strange to me, especially because evan doesn't even look like he's 35, but they started dating when y/n was already of legal age, so i guess that’s fine

ynfan9 y/n was 14 years old in that photo and evan 23...

evanfan5 not the new fans being shocked by this 💀💀💀💀 evan has always been heavily criticized for this for all these years even though they were just friends until 2016. they both went through hell with your public opinion until a couple of years ago and now you guys want to bring it back 😅

ynfan4 @ evanfan5 THIS further treating y/n as a little girl when she is now 26 and a fully capable adult

username love this y/n era

evanfan9 THE PIZZA me trying to cook aesthetically

-

yourinstagram via instagram post

liked by harrystyles, taylorswift13, username, ynupdates, evanfan, kendalljenner and more

yourinstagram you kiss my face and we're both drunk. everyone thinks that they know us, but they know nothing about us

view comments

taylorswift13 💜💜💜

taylorfan1 SPEAK NOW TV????

username she just said that she doesn't give a shit about what you guys talk about her relationship.

ynfan1 swiftie era

yourinstagram wdym im a swiftie since i was born

username why is he kissing her belly?? 👀

evanfan7 here we go again

ynfan2 THE LAST PIC BROOQJDHAKD

username favorite midnights song go

yourinstagram maroon

ynfan9 the publication did not come out more than 10 minutes ago and i have already seen a couple of articles saying that y/n is pregnant like 💀💀💀💀

ahsfan5 I SAID IT I SAID THEY WERE WRITTEN BY TAYLOR

ahsfan7 they’re so cute like 😿😿🥹🥹

username I firmly believe that they are the love of each other's lives

ahsfan IT COUPLEEE

evanfan9O i wonder if y/n will show evan all the goofy edits she sees of him on tiktok

username omg im so embarrassed

-

[writersblockedx]

Just Being Neighbourly

Pairing - Pre-death!Tate Langdon x Fem!Reader Summary - The two have been neighbours for some years now, yet Tate can't help but make his move. Warnings - None, I don't think, just a lot of fluff! Words - 1.6K

A/n - It’s October which means I’ve been re-watching AHS and couldn’t help but write a tate fic after finishing murder house!

Masterlist 

It was always a mystery living in the house across from the Langdons. They were strange people, Y/n's mother would say coming home late from work after getting reeled into conversation with Constance. Or sometimes Y/n would catch the young boy, whom she knew to be Tate from school, leaving the house in the early hours of the morning.

It was them hours when she would be intruded by the thoughts to follow after to him, to yell his name. They were barely even acquaintances, they would be classed as strangers if it were the fact they knew the other's name. But, for whatever reason, Y/n couldn't help the feeling to make sure he was okay in them midnight hours. Yet, every time them thoughts surface, she'd bypass them, tell herself it was none of her business and return to trying to sleep herself.

It had been one random weekend when things began to change. She'd been standing at the bus stop at the end of the road for a bus that was already five minutes late. Her legs chilly with the autumn breeze that passed, yet she had no choice but to bare it in anticipation for the vehicle which was due. She'd been so focused on trying to spot the bus, she had never even clocked that Tate was wandering up to her.

His hands in his pockets, surely to keep his own palms warm, and a slick smile smothering his expression. "Hey," His soft tone reached her ears, almost making her jump - something of which she was successful in concealing as she turned to face Tate.

She too flashed a grin. Y/n tried hard to make sure it wasn't too much, but at the same time, that it wasn't too little. They were neighbours after all - they had to be neighbourly. But, Y/n also didn't want him getting any other ideas. Well, that part she wasn't quite sure of yet. "Hi, Tate, you alright?" She asked him.

"You don't have to make small talk." He chuckled and they both felt a wave of relief from his words. "We're not our mothers. You know, pretending to make small talk as if we don't hate each."

Her eyes narrowed and she swayed on her feet in curiosity. "How do you know my mother doesn't like yours?" She queried with a cheeky glint in her pupils that they both seemed to share.

"Because I've met my mother. I happen to live with her." He replied.

"Sounds torturous." Y/n didn't know the half of it. "Are you saying we secretly hate each other?" She then asked with the quirk of a brow.

He shrugged and took a moment to reply as if debating if he should even speak at all. "Do you? Hate me?"

Her head shook the moment the words slipped passed his lips, "No, of course not. What gave you that idea?"

Again, he was hesitant. Y/n couldn't know for sure, but this seemed like a concern which had been haunting him for awhile now. "You don't speak to me at school. Like when we pass in the hallways, or in class." He shrugged as if his tone wasn't dripping in heavy emotion he seemed to have been holding onto.

"Niether do you, Tate." She said with a slither of a smile. Had she known her apathy towards him was causing such concern, she would have done something about it.

"So you don't...hate me?"

She grinned back at him like she did the first time. "Course not." She told him, looking back at the road to spot the bus which was soon approaching.

Neither of them said anything as it gained closer until it stopped. Y/n got on first, swirling back to face Tate when he made no move to get onto the bus. "You not getting on?" She questioned with knitted brows.

A slick smirk was plastered against his lips, "I'm not getting a bus." He winked, the doors shut and the bus started moving again. There was one question that soon rung around Y/n's mind: if he wasn't getting on the bus, what had he been doing standing at the bus stop?

There was one thing that came out of that unexpected conversation: Y/n started noticing Tate at school. In the beginning, she'd started to smile at him in the hallways, he'd always smile back. Then it was a 'good morning' as they passed, or whispered in class. Before Y/n even realised it, she was looking for him in the crowds. She wished she'd bump into him, that they'd meet eyes and have an excuse to talk again.

There came a day where she just couldn't bare it anymore. Weeks had passed and while they were friendly, she craved for more. She was seated in the library, surrounded by a few friends. Y/n had a good amount of work to do - as her teachers kept reminder her - but her eyes wouldn't dare peel from the curly-haired boy sat two tables down from her.

Tate always sat alone. Sometimes it was because he simply wanted to do, other times it was because there wasn't a second option. At this time, he was completing some much over-due work, headphones over his ears which drowned out the chatter of the mindless teenagers around him. But it also drowned out Y/n. He was utterly unaware of her presence. Had he been, he probably would have made an effect to catch a glimpse of eye contact for the third time today. Alas, Y/n took matters into her own hands.

Without alerting her friends, she gathered herself from the table she was seated at and wandered over to Tate's. She didn't say anything till she sat in the chair across from him. Still with his music blasting, Tate had no idea of his new company. Well, not until she carefully snatched his Biology book from under him. Then his head snapped upwards, instantly flashing a smile as his gaze found Y/n.

"Ooo," She hummed as she took his text book, "Biology, must be a rough day."

He tucked his headphones off, letting them sit around his neck. "It's not that bad." He shrugged; certainly not his least favourite subject there was.

"Have to argue with you on that one." She quirked, sliding the book back towards him.

"Really? You struggling with an academic subject? Doesn't sound like you." He spoke as if he knew her ever so deeply.

She leaned in slightly, finding her chin fitting in the cup of her palm as she stared affectionately to the boy seated across from her. "And who told you that?" She questioned.

"Well, your mom told mine that you're an exceptional student." He chuckled with his words.

"That is true, except for biology." Y/n explained before a cheeky glint emerged in her eyes. "You know, if you'd be happy to, you could always help me out a little." She was testing the waters. She wasn't sure what had happened that day at the bus stop, but it had flickered some light in her which was still crackling and urging for more.

Tate laughed again, his doe-eyes meeting hers, "I can't believe you're asking me for help." He paused and her smile grew. "But, of course, I'll help you."

And so they arranged a time the next day to study over the subject. They met after school at her house. Despite being neighbours for a good few years, Tate had never in fact been at Y/n's house. But, as he was directed up stairs to her bedroom, he remembered thinking that it was exactly as he had expected it to look. Especially, when it came to her room.

"Do you have your text books?" Questioned Tate as they sat at either end of the bed, soon becoming surrounded by papers.

Y/n played in with knitted brows as she listen intently to the blond boy explain the carbon cycle. A topic which was easily a boring one, yet Y/n was more enticed than ever. "Do you get it?" Tate asked, seemingly snapping her out of her awe.

She nodded, "Pretty much yeah." Tate didn't reply. Instead, he plastered on an adoring smile as their eyes intertwined with one another. "What?" Y/n finally giggled when the silence went on for too long.

"You just-" He looked away for a moment. "You stare a lot." He looked back. Their smiles never faded.

The girl shrugged, "I like how you explain things." There was a glint glistening in her pupil that left Tate questioning what was about to follow.

She was already leaning in when Tate responded, "That's a good thing, I guess." He never shuddered as she got closer. Yet, he could never excuse the shivers which electrocuted his spine as their lips finally touched.

They pulled from one another, their foreheads lingering, yet not daring to touch. Tate still had his eyelids closed when Y/n opened hers. He was savouring the moment. Even if he knew the feelings were certainly reciprocated. Once they finally flickered open, Y/n admitted, "I actually have an A in Bio."

They both giggled. They both knew this wasn't the last. That, despite her A in Bio, there would be more study dates, more kisses and they would become more than just neighbours.

-

Everything - @alexxavicry @Emily-roberts @starrryskiees @m4nulup1n​  Want to get notified next time I post? Click here to get added to a taglist!

[calummss]

Tate Langdon 1920s boyfriend headcanon

masterlist

a/n: he’s a little more submissive? or like the tiniest amount of ooc but like tbh i think it’s really believable. anyway not proof read!! it’s late at night and i have an exam tomorrow

he would be head over heals for you like literally

y’all remember bugs bunny getting heart eyes over lola??? yeah that’s him

buys you different flowers for every day of the week

his hand is always around your waist

always placing a kiss somewhere on your face even when others thinks it’s too much pda—he doesn’t care

he thinks you look amazing every day but on parties it’s like he falls in love over again

he’s such a puppy so so loyal too you

‘tate, you coming on friday to the bar?’

‘i’ll ask my wife and get back to you.’

they all just stare at him but he‘s looking at you in a crowd with a smile

or him dancing with you when most women aren’t bc they’re boyfriends/hisbands think dancing is overrated…

carrying your gloves and hat aswell as bag!!!

i literally fell to my knees

when you get bored you two find a bathroom and he drags his tongue up your chest looking at you with those big hazel doe eyes,, loving that he pleases you

lights your cigarette!!

holds his hand over your head when you get in and out of the car

the classic 1920s couple run through the rain holding your bag and newspaper over your head as you try to escape the sky

my favourite scenario; sitting on his lap. his hand stroking your thighs as you take a drag from your cigarette letting him inhale from yours as he stares at you, your smoke entangling in the thick air of a jazz club

and finally, surprising him with a flapper dance choreography at your go to club. he cannot take his eyes off you and has men telling him how lucky he is

trust me…after that little dance your dress is gonna end up on the floor as soon as you two are alone

he worships you like a god, taking good care of every part of you making you realise how lucky you are to have him

[rottenimagines]

SCARS

Summary: What is the part of you that humiliates you the most?

(Little disclaimer: English is not my native language, but I try my best, I promise x.)  

‘‘Take off your dress.’’

‘‘ ...what?!’’

‘‘You won’t get a second chance, Y/N.’’

‘‘Please…’’ you beg as a powerful wave of terrible memories arises in your mind, making you feel sick.

                                       (Take off all of your clothes)

‘‘Part of your cooperation includes a physical examination,’’ Mr. Langdon says and you nod in response immediately, too scared to go against him on this.

He stands behind you and unzips the back of your gray dress, slowly. You just close your eyes wishing the earth would swallow you. The dress falls to the floor leaving you just in your underwear. 

There are scratches and deep scars all over your back. Mr. Langdon runs his fingers through your injured skin.

 ‘‘Who?’’ he asks, hoarsely.

‘‘My stepfather.’’

He hesitates for a few seconds before speaking again.

 ‘‘And... did he get what his deserved?’’

‘‘I set him on fire with the same alcohol he spilled out in his sleep,’’ you spit with pure hatred in your voice.

‘‘Good’’, he says behind you. 

.....

...

‘‘... Have I passed the test, Mr. Langdon? C-can I put my dress back on?’’

He stands in front of you with a creepy smirk drawns in his face.

 ‘‘You’ve been a survivor all your life, why would it be different now?’’

‘‘Thank you.’’

[innocent-writers-soul]

Tate Langdon x Fem!Reader (smut)

summary: you pass by the room where the noises come from and decide to look in to see what is happening there and a strange picture opens in front of you;

warnings: male masturbation, dirty talk, cumming, voyeurism, exhibitionism (?), mention of blood and aggression; not proofread (i apologize if i forgot smth)

word count: 839

You look at Tate and think he's cheeky. He is out of control; he has no brakes or they work too late. And sometimes you can predict what will happen in the end, but there are moments, the consequences of which even for you remain a mystery, for example, like now. You look through the gap in the door and see Tate lying back down on the floor, blood dripping from his nose, he does not stop smiling and laughing maliciously, not even defending himself from attacks. His T-shirt is pulled up, revealing snow-white skin and a slightly embossed body, and you fleetingly understand that you are more similar to him than you could imagine. The only difference is that dark feelings have been born in the depths of your soul and almost always remained there, while Tate has a lot on display — he is not ashamed of himself most of the time, not ashamed of his gloomy and vulgar side. And it even fascinated you to some extent. Delighted, but sometimes frightened, because it was rarely possible to understand what was in his head. And considering the fact that you were still not particularly close and familiar with him, the atmosphere around him was still dangerous, but, nonetheless, exciting.

You quickly look at Patrick, who is standing at a distance from the door, half a turn, with his back to you for the most part, but in such a way that you can watch him clenching his fists in fury, his face twists in aggression, but then he completely freezes with mixed emotions in his eyes. You don't understand what's wrong, but when you return to Tate, your breath hitches.

“Admit it, you haven’t felt such a strong dick for a long time while imprisoned in a house with Chad,” the guy unzippes his fly and begins to stroke himself through the fabric, deliberately sobbing and sighing loudly, “but I have something that might interest you…” Long fingers take out an impressive arousal, the veins on which are already beginning to show — it is difficult to match the childish face of Tate with it — and move up and down at an increasing pace; lube collects under his moving palm, the sounds of squelching spread in the room where there is no furniture yet, and his ragged breathing is the second thing that echoes along the walls. A bright, lively, playful and mischievous smile does not stop leaving his face, his tongue constantly licks dry and cracked lips, he jerks off, looking into Patrick's eyes, but your heart stops beating completely at the moment when he looks at you outside the door, strengthening grip on the length, narrowing his eyes. “And maybe not only you,” he tosses his hips up in reverse motion, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead and rolling down his temple, blood continues to drip onto his T-shirt, but he doesn't care much. However, as well as you and Patrick. You forcefully squeeze the wood at hand, incomprehensible feelings arise inside you, you panic, the phrase “YOU ARE DISCOVERED” lights up in large red letters in your head, while Tate approaches his peak, biting lower lip, closing eyes a little in bliss, arching, but keeping an eye on you. You can’t tear yourself away from the view, it’s too captivating and beautiful, you think that your hand would look good on Tate’s place, but you quickly turn these thoughts away, feeling the uncontrollable atmosphere and your own arousal. You clenches your legs, feeling a throb between them, a tingling warmth beginning to spread in your lower abdomen, and you can’t help but continue to watch and tremble from overwhelming feelings. Your other hand reaches down to calm your admiration at least a little, but when you see that Tate notices this, tilting his head to the side a little, still watching with interest, you fast move it away. This is new for you, because you have never felt anything like this before, especially since you have not peeped at a jerking guy, but everything happens for the first time. Tate meanwhile comes to his senses, his curly tangled hair in even more disarray than usual, he sighs languidly, licking the cum from his palm revealingly, slowly putting two fingers into his mouth, not taking his eyes off you and still grinning.

You let out a barely audible breath, legs do not obey you, but you harshly go away, unable to endure the scene in front of you, of Tate himself, heading to your room at a fast speed, forgetting your (un)secret hiding place and hearing that Patrick has apparently recovered from his daze, beating Tate again. Your face is burning and reddening more and more every second, hands are freezing, heart is beating so fast and you cannot calm it down. You still have no idea what will come out of this situation, but something inside tells that Tate will come to you tonight, not letting you forget what you saw during the day.

a/n: english is not my first language but i tried my best, as always. before that i had been writing in my own for many years and now decided to improve english. in a very interesting direction, i need to say. hope you enjoyed! :)

[mxlti-fand0m-imaginess]

Insomniac // Tate Langdon

request: not sure if i already requested this butttt could you write tate langdon x reader w insomnia like him js comforting you n holding you in bed as you cry from exhaustion n frustration from not being able to sleep - or som along those lines of reader w insomnia? 💛

prompts: none

summary: no matter what you try, you just can't seem to fall asleep. your boyfriend, tate, tries his best to comfort you.

warnings: not proofread

word count: 512

a/n: i know this is shorter than what i usually write, but i've had some difficulty with motivation so i figured that i would at least try! i'm gonna do my best to write more. even though they might not be as long, i promise i will still put the same amount of effort it!

You groan in frustration as you roll onto your back, staring at the dark ceiling above you. It’s been hours of tossing and turning, hoping that you would eventually drift off to sleep. But the peaceful release of rest and dreams never came. It never does. Night after night you’d lie awake, wishing and praying to fall asleep for even a few minutes. Waiting and waiting for relief from this utter exhaustion that never seemed to come. 

Sometimes you were lucky, passing out from exhaustion after trying to fall asleep. You’d wake up in the morning still tired, but at least still able to function. However, with the way things were going tonight, it didn’t look like you were going to fall asleep anytime soon. You were completely drained, needing nothing more than a few hours of sleep. But despite how tired you were, you remained wide awake. And it just made you even more upset.

You sat up, reaching behind you to grab your pillow. Burying your face in it, you let out a frustrated scream. Before you realized it, tears were falling from your eyes. You clutched your pillow to your chest, sobbing in utter frustration and misery. Why were you like this? Why couldn’t you just fall asleep like everyone else did? Why did life feel the need to torture you so?

“Hey, what’s wrong? Why’re you crying?” a gentle voice from beside you said.

You didn’t even need to lift your head to know it was your boyfriend, Tate. You felt the bed dip beside you, a pair of comforting arms wrapping around you. He pulled the pillow out of your grip and you leaned against his chest, holding him tightly.

“Can’t sleep,” your voice muffled from your face being buried in his chest.

He frowned slightly, his hand rubbing your back softly. “Again? I’m sorry baby.”

You cried into his chest, all your pent up emotions spilling out. Tate didn’t mind. He didn’t say anything while you sobbed, just continuing to hold you as you let everything out. Your hands gripped the fabric of his sweater tightly, trying to ground yourself to him.

“Why am I like this? Why can’t I just fall asleep? It’s so easy for everyone else,” you whispered, voice shaking from your tears. 

“I don’t know, baby. I just wish I knew how to help you. It hurts me to see you suffer like this,” he replied, still holding you against him.

“You are helping, Tate. Just you being here helps. It makes me feel better. You make me feel better.”

He smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. The two of you sat there in silence, just savoring each other's embrace. Soon, your grip on him loosened and your eyes grew heavy. Tate smiled down at you lovingly. He leaned back, laying down on your bed, pulling you down to rest on his chest, being careful to not move you too much.

Soft snores started emanating from you as you finally found the blissful release of sleep in your boyfriend’s arms. 

tags: @jamespotterslover @ahsxual @twinkiemaximoff @1800-fuckbitchesgetmoney @thatspookyagent @shadyspears @amourtentiaa @rottenstyx @tates-radio @hallecarey1 @im-verysad @tatesxthumbring @imaloserbabysowhydontyourailme @evilcr0ne @hocksetters @milly-louise @slut4kaiya @larawrrites

if your user is crossed out, it means i can't tag you!

[iamnotoriginalphil]

Not Jealous (Cordelia Goode x f!Reader)

Synopsis: Clearly Cordelia does not feel the same way you feel about her.

Words: 2.5k

Warnings: jealousy, assumptions of unrequited love

You knew there was no reason to be jealous. Of course not. Cordelia wasn’t yours. It didn’t matter how you felt about her. There was no point denying your feelings for the Supreme, but that wasn’t the same as having them reciprocated. So you had no right to feel the churning of jealousy in your gut.

Until…

You looked up from the book you were reading, zeroing in on the two woman standing just outside the door. Cordelia’s hand was resting on Misty’s arm, leaning towards her as they talked softly. Your fingers clenched on your book. Taking a deep breath in, you paused, counting to ten in your head before letting it go again.

There was no reason to be jealous.

Misty said something, too quiet for you to hear. Cordelia tipped her head back, her laughter ringing through the room. You stilled, watching her, your eyes slipping over her body, taking in the long column of her neck, the shine of her hair, the curve of her lips. That was your laugh, the one you received when you amused her.

You inhaled sharply, closing your book and slipping out of the room. You couldn’t watch anymore. You couldn’t

There was no reason to be jealous.

Yeah right. Ever since Misty had come back it was like you had to fight for Cordelia’s attention. She’d stopped noticing you. Where once she sought your company, you’d been replaced. She didn’t have time for you. The shared smiles had stop, transferred to another. She’d stopped having time for you, all taken up by the returning witch. You noticed all the ways you were being pushed out, replaced without so much as a word.

What you didn’t notice was the way her eyes followed you out of the room.

You found a quiet spot in the garden to curl up with your book, doing your best to slip back into the words. It was hard, the image of the woman you’d stupidly fallen for as she fell for another kept playing on repeat in your head.

Every touch, every smile, every glance. You’d seen it over and over again. She was slipping further from you with every breath, every brush of fingers over arms, every cupped cheek. The distance was growing and you didn’t know how to stop it. You didn’t even know if it was worth trying.

Clouds were gathering overhead, blotting out the sun. You shivered as the air turned chilly, curling up further on the bench you were sitting on. You tipped your head back, leaving the pretence of reading behind. Closing your eyes, you basked in the memory of how it had been.

You missed the touch of her skin against yours, the way her eyes sparkled whenever you spoke to her, the soft laugh in the middle of the night when she caught you still up reading. You wanted her soft sigh as she directed you to bed, a hand on the small of your back, making sure you climbed into bed and turned the light off. You missed the way she’d pass you a cup of tea in the morning, knowing glint in her eye, fingers brushing against the back of your hand.

A cold drop of rain landed on your forehead. You sighed, picking up your book as another drop fell. You tipped your head back for one last moment, letting the water fall over you, sprinkling on your skin. Shivering, you took a deep breath in, trying to let the rain wash away the jealousy and the pain and the hurt.

It didn’t work.

Wandering back into the house, you didn’t care at the way the rain began to fall harder, only aiming to shield the book. You shivered, uncaring of the puddle of water you were tracking inside. You left the book on the table, stroking over the still dry cover, before leaving it behind. You trailed water through the house as you trudged up to your room.

Sitting in the bath with your arms curled around your knees, you watched the steam curl in the air. On a long exhalation you shaped it into hearts before they broke apart in a shattered kaleidoscope of painful shards. You don’t know how long you sat there, trying to warm the chill that had settled deep in your bones. Maybe you needed something more than a hot bath.

On bare feet, you padded into your room only to freeze as the door closed behind you.

“There you are,” Cordelia said, her voice soft enough to make you groan.

You didn’t know what to say. It had been a while since you’d seen her there, in your room, looking as if she belonged. You pressed your lips together, backing up until your spine was pressed against the door. In nothing but your robe, you felt exposed, vulnerable, like you’d left your armour behind.

“I was worried you’d melted in the rain,” she said, giving you a half small.

“No,” you said, “just having a bath.”

“You were drenched out there,” She took a step towards you, her hands clasped in front of her body, “you left something behind.”

Your book, the one you’d left in the kitchen as you’d rushed upstairs, was clutched in her hand. You opened your mouth to say something, then closed it again. The thought of her noticing you enough to know you’d been out in the rain sent an ache through your chest. She took another step towards you, holding the book out to you. You shook your head, pressing harder against the door.

“What’s wrong?” She seemed to wilt under your gaze.

“Nothing,” you said, voice so small you were surprised it still existed, “thank you for returning the book but I think I’m done with it.”

“You’ve read it?” she asked.

You shook your head. A love story wasn’t really what you were looking for. If you really wanted that you just had to watch Cordelia with Misty. Which only made you want to throw up.

“Darling, talk to me,” she said, taking one more step towards you.

“I’m just tired,” you said, not able to meet her eyes, “maybe you should go.”

Fingers tilted your chin up and you had to hold back tears. The touch of her skin against yours was what you’d been yearning for, wishing for, praying for. You tried to pull back but she held on, her grip tightening to keep you from moving away. You wanted it but not like this.

“If you really want me to go, I will,” she said, “but I’d rather stay and talk to you.”

“I’m sure you have other people you can talk to.” You hadn’t meant to sound so bitter about it.

Something in her face shifted. You held your breath, not wanting her to see the real reason, the embarrassment of it more than you’d be able to handle. She let you go, turning to walk to the bed, placing the book down on the bedside table. You could feel yourself trembling, still pressed against the door.

“You’ve been distant lately,” she said, fingertips running over your comforter.

“I…” You didn’t have a proper answer for her.

“I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve done something wrong. If I have I wish you’d tell me. I don’t like the thought of upsetting you,” she said. The way she looked at you with barely contained regret was not an expression you ever wanted to see on her face.

“You haven’t,” you said.

“Then why have you been avoiding me?”

That wide eyed stare swimming in sadness was not one that made you feel any better. Your heart clenched and you would have done anything to make her feel better.

But the accusation was ridiculous. You hadn’t been avoiding her. She’d been spending all her time with Misty, choosing someone else’s presence over yours. You’d thought… Well, what you’d thought wasn’t important anymore.

“I haven’t,” you said, “you’ve just been busy.”

“I’m never too busy for you,” she said, voice so soft it could break you in half.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. Just because she believed it didn’t mean it was true. Hands cupped your cheeks, forcing you to look at her and all those old feelings came swooping back in. Your heart skipped a beat and it didn’t matter that resentment had been building in your chest for weeks now. You’d always fall at her feet, even if she didn’t love you the way you loved her.

“Please. I’ve missed you,” she said.

You bit down on your lower lip, trying to keep all of the ugly thoughts inside. Her eyes flicked down to it, a thumb gently pulling it free. Your breath stuttered and you had no idea how to function with her so close, touching you in ways you could only dream of.

“Darling…” she breathed.

“I know how you feel about Misty,” you blurted out before it could go any further than it already had.

She blinked, drawing back far enough for you to be able to breath properly again. Her hands were still on your face but the look she was giving you was baffled, as if your words hadn’t made sense.

“What?” she asked.

“I know you’re in love with her,” you said, “so you probably shouldn’t be touching me like this.”

“You think I’m in love with Misty? Our Misty?” She sounded so confused.

“I don’t think. I know you are. I’ve seen you with her and I’m not an idiot. It’s obvious,” you said, wondering if you should be pushing her away as she wasn’t moving on her own.

“I’m not in love with Misty,” she said with a small shake of her head.

“You don’t have to lie to me just to spare my feelings,” you said, “seriously, it’s fine.”

“And while that’s good to know, it’s not a lie. She’s not who I’m in love with,” she said.

Your mouth slammed shut as words failed you. She moved forward again, her palms practically burning the skin of your face. You didn’t know what to do, frozen beneath her hands and her gaze, heart thundering loud in your ears.

“Darling?” she prompted.

“So you are in love with someone?” you asked.

You didn’t know whether to feel sick or hopeful. Maybe sick from being so hopeful.

“I am,” she confirmed, “but it’s not Misty.”

“Who is it?” Your voice didn’t feel your own.

“I thought it was obvious,” she said.

“It’s not,” you replied, shaking your head.

“It’s you, my darling girl,” she said, “you’re the one I’m in love with.”

You didn’t have words. She was smiling at you, the soft one that always made your stomach somersault and your heart flutter. You swallowed past a lump in your throat, not quite able to believe the words she was saying. All your hopes hung on her and it scared you.

“I am?” you asked.

“Of course you are.” Her fingers pushed your hair behind your ear, lingering on your jaw, “you’re the one I want.”

You were hesitant as you brought your hands to her waist. She was so warm under your skin, so soft. Her head dipped, breath ghosting over your lips.

“I want you,” she murmured, lips brushing yours, “only you.”

You kissed her, surging up, pressing yourself to her. You couldn’t stop yourself, needing her with every fibre of your being. She pushed you against the door, pinning you to it, her tongue slipping into your mouth. The taste of her had you moaning, head turning fuzzy.

Her fingers pushed into your hair, tilting your head up as she kissed you deeper. You whimpered, arms curling around her body, holding her against you. She mumbled your name into your mouth, slowing the kiss down, taking her time to explore. You melted under her touch.

“My sweet girl,” she murmured, “my darling girl.”

Her nose brushed against yours, skimming the length of your jaw, lips ghosting over your skin. You were practically vibrating under her, strung so tight, wanting every part of her.

“I’m hoping this means you return my feelings,” she said.

“Yes,” you gasped, “yes, so much. Oh god, so much, Delia.”

“That’s a relief,” she chuckled, drawing back far enough to be able to look at you. Her thumb traced over your bottom lip, smile deepening when you pressed a kiss to it, “so there’s no reason to be jealous.”

“I wasn’t jealous,” you muttered.

“Darling.” She threaded her fingers through yours, tugging you away from the door, “you left every room both Misty and I were in. You sat as far away from me as you could. You stopped showing up for our late night tea.”

“I thought you had someone else you’d prefer to be with,” you said.

“You were jealous,” she said.

“I… was jealous,” you admitted.

Her hands cupped your cheeks, pulling you in for another kiss, shorter than you would have liked. You whined when she drew back, her chuckle making your cheeks heat.

“You have nothing to be jealous of,” she told you.

“It just looked like… I mean you were always with her,” you tried to explain, “and you touched her like you touch me. You didn’t have time for me anymore.”

“I’m sorry for making you feel that way, darling,” she said, pulling you closer until she could wrap you in her arms, “I always have time for you. It was never my intention to make you feel like I didn’t.”

“Are you saying you’ll make it up to me?” you asked, muffled against her shoulder.

“And what might you want, my darling girl?” You could hear the amusement in her voice.

Your lips found her neck and her breathy laugh had heat curling in your stomach. She was gentle as she pushed you back, a flush high on her cheeks and bright eyes looking down on you. You pouted but with her hands on your shoulders she kept you back.

“There’ll be plenty of time for that,” she said, “but dinner will be soon and I’d rather not be interrupted.”

“But-“

She placed her finger over your lips, silencing you more effectively than you could have thought possible. Her smile softened and she stepped closer again, encasing you in a cocoon of her warmth and the scent of her perfume.

“Later, darling. You get dressed. I’ll see you downstairs,” she said.

You nodded. She let you go, stepping around you. She turned at your door, hand on the handle, eyes scanning over you again. You looked back at her, warmth flooding through your veins.

“Oh, and I love you,” she said.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

She gave you a radiant smile and slipped from your room, leaving you alone once again. You stared at the door for a moment, not able to believe your luck.

As it turned out, there really was no reason to be jealous.

[marchsfreakshow]

Sweet Treats and Gentlemen [Kit Walker]

Fluffy to all hells

Literally just Kit Walker taking you on a date because you're a cutie! :)

Third attempt at this idea! It's been an idea for ages now and it's never gone right, so I hope this one works.

No one's perspective

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

Nerves. Nerves building up. Pacing around your living room. Did you look nice enough? Was your hair done perfectly? Was everything ironed good enough? Oh lord...it was hazing your mind before the date even began, and the man hadn't even turned up on your doorstep yet. Your worries had made you sit on your couch motionless, blinking at nothing as you stared blankly. Lost in no thoughts at all as you awaited for the knock.

And two soft knocks brought you out of your thoughtless stares.

Soft heels clicked on the hardwood floor until you reached the front door. Picking up your bag, and taking a deep breath, you opened the front door. "Afternoon. Wow. You look.." Kit's voice was smooth, honey-like, immediately making you weak in the knees. He was breathless as he took in your outfit. "L-like an angel.." The man breathed out eventually, eliciting a soft chuckle from your lips. Music to his ears. Not even 5 minutes into a date and he was already making you laugh? That's always a positive.

"Thank you, Kit, that's very kind of you." Was your response, taking your first footsteps out of the house. He offered a hand which you gracefully took, heading out towards the road.

"Oh! Uh, completely forgot." Kit chuckled awkwardly, handing you the small bouquet in his hand, adorned with different shades of purples, whites and yellows. "Bought fresh today for ya." Why, it was the prettiest bouquet you had ever seen.

He placed them in your free hand, letting his fingers brush yours momentarily. "Kit, these are spectacular. Thank you.."

"It's nothing at all."

With a small smile and still intertwined fingers, the both of you started walking together. Despite getting to know each other and the fact you could hold a conversation decently well, you still felt as awkward and giddy as a schoolgirl. I mean, you were really on a date! Holding hands and a full bouquet in your other hand too! You resisted the urge to swoon and smile embarrassingly widely as Kit looked over at you occasionally.

You did eventually strike up a conversation as Kit took you around the town centre. Talking about the music you adored, how you came to be in this town... everything and nothing. And your love for pastries. Your attempts at baking sweet breads never turned out well, but nothing a well-written cookbook couldn't solve. Speaking of pastries. "Hey, c'mon, in here." Kit chuckled with a grin, pulling you into a bakery.

Letting yourself get pulled into the store, it was definitely more a café than anything. Small tables made for two, overall looking more cosy and romantic than anything. There was so much to consider getting. Pain au Chocolat, cinnamon buns, raisin buns eugh, chocolate chip cookies, yum yums, the loveliest looking cupcakes decorated with light buttercream and sugared flowers on top. Of course, there were a few fresh bread loaves on display too. It was overwhelming your nose with scents and there was so much to see. "Well? What should I get?" Kit asked softly as the queue quickly shortened. Oh, right. There was too much to pick from! You couldn't make a decision, leaving your mouth agape as you searched your brain for a decision. "Two cinnamon buns please."

"Of course." You blinked and looked up to the counter, seeing Kit already ordering and paying. He knew you well already and you hadn't even been on this date for long. "Here you are, sir."

"Thank you! You have a good day now." Kit smiled sweetly at the worker before he took you to sit down at one of the tables. You just had to take a moment to register what had just happened. Your date slid you one of the buns, and you placed the flowers on your lap so they weren't interfering too much. "You doin' okay? I'm not overwhelmin' you am I suga'?"

"no, no you're..." You trailed off as your head shot up to meet his eyes. They were staring hearts into you. Like he belonged in this little bakery you were sat in together. "You're perfect.." a smile and a sigh left you, watching him take a bite of the sweet treat he held in his hand. Pink and red painted his cheeks as you complimented him. Perfect? He was far from perfect. Flawed, like all humans were.

"P-perfect? Ah, you flatter me darl'.." Kit stuttered out between a bite of the cinnamon treat, licking his lips of the icing.

"It's true.." you sighed lovingly, resting your cheek on your hand, just admiring him wiping his lips with a small napkin. How could he not see how perfect and brilliant he was? Despite that, the baked goods were eaten as minimal words were spoken. Occasionally looking up at each other and giving small, juvenile giggles.

The hours passed.

The sun continued to shine.

Eventually, you were stood at your doorstep, running your fingers through the flowers. "You have a good night okay? I'm glad you had a nice time."

"Today was wonderful Kit. I appreciate everything you've given me today." Kit nodded and started to head off as you unlocked your door. "Hey, Kit.."

He turned back around and smiled up at you. "Hm?"

"Would...would you like to come in for a bit?" A quieter, nervous voice coming back to you. Obviously Kit agreed, stepping into the hallway once you placed the flowers in an empty vase. "I...I don't have much to do, but, I was hoping we could.."

You didn't finish your sentence before you immediately heard the radio starting to play. Ah, it seems Kit had the same idea you had. When he began to sing along cheesily, a giggle left you, just making you both smile. He gently held your hands, pulling you close and dancing you along. His fingers intertwined with yours and swift, light steps around your living room. Giddy smiles and giggles, soft sing-alongs. This man could've been the death of you as that smile of his melted you in his arms. "You're so sweet, Kit.."

"you're sweeter suga'. Havin' you in my arms is something I could get used to." He smirked a bit, softly wrapping his arms around your waist, letting your fingers rest on his shoulders.

Another little chuckle left you, and a brisk kiss fueled the fire that was your attraction to each other. Another one, and another. "..you, want to stay for dinner?"

"sounds like a plan darlin'."

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

Tags: @babygorewhore / @taintandviolent / @oceanblvd111 / @nahoyasboyfriend / @coentinim / @slutforgarlogan / @briaroftheroses @am3ricanh0rrorwh0re /. @evanpeterspeter / @feefymo / @fear-is-truth / @lacucarachapisser / @marchsfreak / @saintlucretia

[willows-escape]

Love, Love, Love | AHS Tate Langdon x Reader

Pairing: AHS Tate Langdon x Reader

Summary: You died. A pity. You were stuck in a house filled from the basement to the attic of people past who'd met their untimely fates. A pity. Your boyfriend, the love of your short life, stopped talking to you; spending his time hanging out with the bane of your existence. Violet. A pity.

Warnings: you die, terrible communication skills, angst to fluff, smut smut smut, reader tries to be in charge- tate nips that in the bud quickly though, restraint, oral (fem receiving), banging on the basement floor lel, they get caught, creampies, slight make up sex, tate makes you taste yourself haha whoops, jealousy, tate and violet bein friends- she forgave him and whatnot, he makes a jokey reference to what he said about f-ing violet in the show but that’s just because it’s tate

You were cold. So, so cold. Desolate and drained of life, splayed out and unnervingly still on the floor beneath you. Your own dead body was casually propped in front of you, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Another milestone in the traumatic circle of life in which you lived.

You heard pitiful sobs ringing out alongside hushed whimpers, 'i'm sorry, i really tried. I promise.'

'It's okay,' you murmured, words hushed and tension building in your throat.

'I still love you.'

But did he love you?

You found yourself pondering this question lately, eyes narrowed and lips bitten to shreds as you silently sat on the floor of the attic. It was safe to say you were relatively adjusted to the whole being dead thing now, having made yourself acquainted with all the other lone spirits wandering the house.

'Come on, Beau, gimme a turn with the ball,' you smiled, watching the small boy prod, push and throw the small toy around in glee. It was heartwarming watching him be so happy and in his element, but also it twisted your guts knowing why he was doomed to the fate he shares with you.

Eager to play with you, the ball was quickly pushed along the dusty, splintered floorboards. You reached out to it, but the enthusiasm behind Beau's push caused it to roll further and faster than you'd anticipated. Giggling, you pushed yourself out of your cross legged position and followed the ball to the entrance.

The attic door was open, meaning the ball had fallen from the attic floor to the hallway beneath you. You knew that since you were a ghost you could technically just materialise yourself in any room you wished to be in, but you had a habit of trying to stick to doing things the traditional way when you could help it.

'Tate, don't be an asshole,' you heard a familiar voice snicker beneath you, accompanied by a boyish laughter that somehow always managed to set fire to your skin. Except this time, your skin prickled, your faux blood tingling as if your veins were flowing with lightning.

'You know you love me, Vi.'

Even with another girl, Tate still managed to be the only thing to make you still feel alive.

Your mood had effectively been soured, the ball no longer of your concern. You disappeared, ignoring the confused whining of the little boy behind you. You felt too betrayed to care.

If there's one thing that ignited your nerves, it was the shrill screams of children. The sound had you bristling on edge, agitated and digging your nails into the palms of your hands. The affection and care you held for kids didn't apply when they were crying their little hearts out.

'Are you okay, Nora?' you asked sympathetically, watching her grimace at the infant laying in the cot beside her, as if she were looking at the devil himself. The baby was crying out, for what you didn't know, but it didn't seem like it was going to chill out anytime soon.

'I don't wish to look at it,' she stood up, hands wiping themselves against each other as if to rid herself of the suddenly dirty germs of her child. 'Where's Vivienne?'

'Having a family night with Ben and Violet,' a new figure peaked up, the hauntingly familiar voice turning your taste buds sour and causing your saliva to run dry.

Shaking her head in irritation, she tossed a blanket in your direction before turning to exit the main area of the basement, 'I'll be back once it's calmed.'

You groaned. Not only had you been left with a small, screaming child, you were also sitting in front of the man who hadn't properly spoken with you since your death- and had clearly moved on just fine and dandy. As if you'd meant nothing.

Rage simmered in your chest, begging to slip off your tongue and rear it's ugly head at the object of your anger. But you kept yourself collected, it was no use sobbing until your lungs collapsed or beating him with your fists as you unleashed the pent up sadness and confusion you held.

And not only that, this was only time you'd been near his vicinity since your death, and yet he was still only talking about her.

There was an awkward silence drifting between you both, feeling his coconut coloured eyes raking over you as you stood up to attend to the responsibility you'd been left with. You lifted the baby into your blanketed arms, humming a familiar lullaby as you rocked back and fourth gently. The crying didn't cease.

'Do dead babies need diaper changes?'

Your lips pursed. The first words he felt worthy of saying to you after your death... was asking if ghost babies could piss and shit? You almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, what else could you expect from him? That was the boy you knew, as dense as ever.

'Nope,' you responded blankly, 'You've been dead longer than me, would've supposed you'd have figured out dead people don't have functioning organs by now.'

'I dunno, but babies are babies. What else can they do except shit, eat and sleep?' he mused, his relentless gaze still lingering on your figure.

'Well, now he's only left with eating and sleeping.'

The silence settled in once more, and you tried to ignore how much you loved having his attention. You bitterly reminded yourself that if it weren't for the Harmon's spending time together, he'd leave you to be with Violet in a flash.

'I'm sorry.'

'Whatever for?' you inquired, voice light and airy as if you didn't understand why he felt the need to say such a thing. What could he have possibly done to feel the need to apologise?

You heard a disgruntled sigh from behind you, his frustration clearly becoming too overwhelming to contain. Good, you thought, be annoyed. You couldn't give less of a shit.

'Can we just go back to normal? Please?'

Normal?

Normal.

He, all of a sudden, felt as though it was time to go back to normal? After abandoning you, choosing another over you, betraying you, he felt it was time to pull on his big boy pants and act like all of this just never occurred? You'd known he had a slight fear of rejection, but you never expected him to have the audacity to not even face what he'd done wrong. To ignore it and attempt to sweep it under the rug, as if it were just a dry spell in your relationship that meant no harm.

You scoffed, placing the no longer crying angel back into his crib. You brushed back the few strands of hair he possessed, before looking to face the antsy man behind you. The nerve.

'Can't do, sorry.'

You walked off, disappearing as Nora came back to attend to her baby. Loving him conditionally once more, returning to care for and treat him as her own- on her own terms.

Much like somebody else you knew.

'I don't know what to do,' Tate groaned, 'I don't know how to get her to talk to me again, y'know? She's just like, gone cold. Like I don't exist.'

Ben Harmon sat across from him, arms crossed as he listened to the boys ramblings. It was almost entertaining how Tate had seemed to have gone full circle, and yet didn't have the self awareness to realise he was back where he started. No longer obsessing over his daughter, thank god, but another girl who'd enraptured him. Another girl who was, funny enough, also trying to cut contact with him.

'We can't force people to do thing's they don't want to do, Tate. If they don't want to talk to you, then that's their choice. They don't owe you a conversation.'

'Don't you think I know that?'

It was also funny how even though Ben had vehemently refused to ever see Tate as another client in his life, or in his death, here he was. Sitting across from the pouting man child who had begged him for help one last time, promising that this would be the final occasion where he'd ask for his assistance. For some peculiar reason, Ben didn't believe this would be the last.

'Is this week the first time you tried to talk to her?' Ben questioned, the unfortunate realisation sinking in that the situation was more hopeless than he thought as Tate nodded his head. 'Why?'

'I dont knowww,' he whined, head thrown back and eyes closing as he reveled in his self pity. 'I just, I don't know, I was scared.'

'Scared?'

'I feel like she died because of me, like I failed her. Like she'd have been better off without me meddling in her life, so I thought why meddle in her afterlife too? She didn't need me making her even more miserable.'

'Did she give any indication that she actually thinks this way of you, Tate?' His brows furrowed as he took in what the blonde boy was saying, trying to make sense of how he'd come to this conclusion in his sick head. Sick being the keyword, of course his thought process made no sense. Tate's mental state wasn't normal by any means, so it took jumping through plenty of loops to try to understand him.

Many, many loops.

'I mean, no,' Tate fiddled with his fingers, looking down at his hands as he tried to hold back his tears, 'I fucked up.'

'Yup.'

'Do you think I can fix it? Like I did with Violet?'

Ben paused his thought process, staring the boy in his eyes as he spoke through gritted teeth, 'Violet? What have you been doing with my daughter?'

'Nothin', nothin'' Tate quickly reassured, raising his hands in surrender, brushing off the older man's piercing stare. 'I have my eyes set on y/n now, me and Violet are longgg gone. Still cool to hang out with though, yesterday we-'

'I don't want to know what you've been doing with my daughter.'

'Gee, relax. I fucked her once, years ago,' Tate scoffed, rolling his eyes as he chuckled, 'She was a great time for a virgin though, she was sooo wet-'

'Enough,' Ben seethed, standing up out of his leather armchair as he walked towards the door. He opened it, pointing in the direction of the hallway.

'Hey, I was just messing with ya,' Tate softly spoke, trying to diffuse the situation. He didn't really mean what he said about Violet, his numerous encounters with you had made everyone before you seem as if they never happened. He just wanted to get on Ben's nerves a little, like the good times. Plus, Tate couldn't leave yet, Ben hadn't solved his problem. And he'd rather get gunned down dead again before leaving the office without a plan of action to get you to reconcile with him.

'Tate, you know what your problem is?' Ben approached him, hands making aimless gestures as he continued his rant. 'You don't have boundaries, you don't think of the affects of your words and your actions before it's too late. Consider people's feelings more and you wouldn't be in this situation for the second time.'

'Well, ow,' Tate cringed, face scrunching up as he took in the mean spew of word's Ben had thrown at him. He knew he didn't deserve niceties, but that didn't make his harsh words sting less.

'I won't repeat myself, Tate. I want you out.'

Reluctantly and with an angered scowl on his face, he disappeared.

'Fucking talk to me!' He cried, arms tightly clutched around your frame, holding onto you as if you'd vanish if he let go. You gritted your teeth at his sobs.

You tried forcefully removing his desperate arms from around your body, but your efforts were useless as they only spurred him to cling tighter. His salty tears were soaking the white fabric of the dress you had died in, your nose scrunching as you felt the wet patch press against you unpleasantly.

'Where we you when I wanted to talk?' you angrily mumbled, struggling to even lighten the grip he had purchased around you. You were stuck, and you knew there was no point wasting your strength. He was a stubborn boy.

'I'm sorry, okay,' he hiccuped, his breath hitching in his throat as he babbled on aimlessly. You understood a small fraction of his words, not even enough to string together a sentence, but enough to gather what he was trying to convey. You really didn't want to have your resolve shattered, but if you had to listen to his pitiful pleas any longer you were going to snap.

Snap, as in, take his soft cheeks in your hands and give him a fat smooch, and forgive all the heartbreak and pain he'd put you through recently.

But, you wanted to hear him beg a little more. You were quite cruel. However, there was a small, nagging fear in the back of your mind you'd needed relieved.

'Tate, what about... what about Violet?' you softly asked, your voice barely audible under your breath. You were scared, so fucking scared. What if he immediately let you go upon realising what you said, coming to his senses as it dawned on him that Violet really was the better option? That you weren't enough for him after all?

You knew enough of Tate and Violet's history to be aware that they'd been something once before, something intimate and that there had been a shared attraction between the two. You didn't know the extent, nor did you wish to know all the details, but there was something. And that was enough to have you on edge.

'Violet?' Tate looked up at you, tear stained cheeks gleaming and red as he sniffled. 'What- did Violet say something to you? Whatever it was, it was a lie! Is that why you didn’t wanna talk? Violet?'

'It was nothing that Violet did,' you stated, running your hand through his poofy, blonde locks for comforts sake. For your or his comfort, you didn't know.

'Then why?' his voice cracked as a sob escaped his throat, his head nuzzling deeper into your hip. He was on his knees beside you, puffy eyes, lips and cheeks pressing against you.

'You're just always with her,' the mental wall holding the sea of emotions you were harbouring collapsed, your cries matching his as you slid to a sitting position. Tate didn't let you go, keeping a firm grip on you as you joined him on the floor. 'You seem so happy together, and you haven't spoken to me since, well- you know when. And you and Violet used to be a thing, and I heard you say that you knew she loved you when i was upstairs in the attic one day and I just-'

'You're stupid,' Tate chuckled through his tears, arms adjusting to bring you against his body in a loving embrace. You felt the safest you had in a while, coddled in his arms against the wall of the basement. It was peaceful.

'I just need to know, Tate,' you brushed his fringe back as you gazed into his eyes, the love you'd left bubbling under the surface of your being, threatening to explode out of you. He was so beautiful, and you were yearning to let him know. 'Violet or me? I'll forgive you for not talking to me, won't even ask why you did all that. I just need-'

'You.'

You smiled, pulling his stupid, pretty face towards you to indulge yourself in what you'd been missing. His love.

Although, you still wanted to make him beg.

'Why'd you stop?' he huffed, nudging his face towards yours to capture your lips in another heated kiss. He'd gone so long without you, and right now, he was feeling selfish. He was intent on taking all of you.

'Proving I can make you feel better than Violet,' you laughed at the forlorn expression etched across his face, his hands tightening their grip as he attempted to pull you into him. He wanted you to become one with him. He wanted you so bad. Needed you.

'Babyyy,' he whinged, tugging on the material of your dress. You didn't move an inch. Now you'd made up with the love of your life, you were going to make sure the next hour of the rest of your relationship was going to start with a bang.

'Take your pants off.'

A goofy smile spreads across his lips, his grip untangling from around you as he reaches down to undo the zipper of his jeans. His hands were ready and brisk, making quick work of his clothing as he slid it down his legs. He'd been waiting for this since the last time you'd made love.

That was a part of the difference in how he viewed you and Violet. Violet was a quick fuck, an easy release, a one and done kind of deal- if he had known your pretty little ass would've waltzed into his life, he wouldn't have touched her like that with a ten foot pole. They were similar, true buddy material, but you were the breath of fresh air he needed. The change of pace he craved. You kept him sane, while Violet ignited his instability and made him lose himself. He hated losing himself.

You reached out with your right hand, your left keeping you stable and upright while you kneeled in between his spread legs. Fire was accumulating in your tummy, your arousal twisting and enkindling your insides. You saw the appendage beneath the flimsy material of his boxers twitch, a small wet stain signalling his desperation. His cock throbbed as he waited in anticipation for you to finally make contact with his aching hard on.

You traced just around the outline of it, watching his eyes as they followed your hand going round and round his dick. He needed your hand, mouth, cunt- anything, he just needed to feel you touch him. He'd missed your touch more than anything.

'Please?' he cheekily peered up at you, biting his lip as he smirked. You rolled your eyes at him, reminding him you weren't going to give him what he wanted unless he begged. Properly.

He entertained your false sense of dominance for slightly longer, until he saw your hand nearing the dripping mess between your legs and he'd immediately decided he'd had enough of the teasing. He wasn't going to get left out of the fun.

Before you could even process the change in position, you were knocked onto your back and your hands were pinned above your head. That was fucking hot, even if you were slightly winded. If Tate wasn't situated snug and firm between your legs, you'd be rubbing your thighs together, desperately searching for friction against your clit.

'Woah,' you giggled, smiling up at Tate as he frantically kissed down your cheek to the bare skin of your neck. His hands trailed down to your parted thighs, sneakily making their way beneath the flimsy skirt that was doing little to nothing to hide your clothed mound.

He toyed with the lace of your underwear, getting back at you for the torment you put him through not moments before. He watched as you bit your lip and rolled around impatiently, wanting his fingers in your dripping folds, rubbing and soothing the ache in your pussy. He just laughed at your insatiable need, leaning closer to cover your lips with his as he finally pushed past the barrier keeping you two agonisingly apart.

‘Oh, shit-' you moaned, trying to relieve your hands from the relentless grip your sweet boyfriend currently had around your sore, red wrists. You never knew pain could feel so fucking good. The fingers of his free hand were exploring every inch of you, tentatively circling your hole before rising up to your sweet bundle of nerves. He loved watching you fall apart beneath him. It was addictive.

Smothering his fingers in the flowing essence dripping from your hole, he bought them up between the two of you as he once more parted from your plump, swollen lips. Your cheeks warmed at the pruned state of his hands, eyes entranced as you noticed the way your arousal dripped down him. He alined his fingers up to entrance of your mouth, words that didn’t need to be spoken aloud hanging off of the edge of his tongue. Your eyes widened.

‘You- you want me to—‘

‘Open.’

One word was all that needed to be said for you to scurry to fulfil his orders. You parted your lips as he requested, watching as he lowered his fingers past your opening before laying them flat against your wet muscle. ‘Suck.’

Eyes fluttering shut, you wrapped the ring of your lips around him as you tasted the manifestion of your excitement. It didn’t as taste as bad as you expected, sweet even. You laughed mentally as you recalled all the fruit you’d love to indulge yourself in when you were still alive. Must be that.

You lapped your tongue over his digits, moving your head back and forth as you took every inch of them that you could. His breathing was becoming laboured, watching you as you sucked him in as if he were a lollipop for you to feast on. He quickly removed himself from your mouth, shuffling further down the floor until his hot breath was right above where you wanted him the most. He tugged your underwear down your legs, wrapping his arms tightly around your thighs as he hurriedly dipped his head between your soft thighs.

His tongue was cold as it came in contact with you, sending you jolting as he devoured everything he could get his lips on. Your wetness smeared across the lower half of his face as he pushed his lips closer against you, taking every little drop you were giving him. Your moans and whimpers spurred him on, his greed taking over as he meticulously circled his tongue around your sweet spot. His hips had a mind of their own, pathetically rutting his cock against the basement floor as you pulled him closer by his mess of hair.

You can feel him moaning against you, the vibrations sending sparks through your sensitive area as you squealed in surprise. You tried to pull away from his ministrations, but the grip on your thighs kept you anchored to his persistent hot mouth.

Kissing down from your clit to your needy hole, he trailed his tongue around the ring of your cunt before pushing past the barrier into your dripping warmth. You cried out, unintentionally clenching around him, legs quivering as he tongue fucked your hole as if it were his dick.

Speaking of his dick, it was feeling very lonely and like it wanted in on some of the fun. Finally pulling away from between your legs, he moved forward until he was face to face with you.

‘Hi,’ you laughed, taking in his blissed out appearance. His lips and the tip of his nose glistened, his cheeks pink and pupils dilated. His hair was a poofy, untamed ball on the top of his head, showing signs of your tugging and pulling from how it had knotted together.

‘Hey, greetings and salutations,’ he smiled back, placing a firm kiss on your lips. You deepened the kiss as you wrapped your arms around the curve of his neck, your heart soaring as he enveloped your body in his arms.

The sounds of your wet lips smacking together filled the air, your mind oblivious as you lost yourself in the way his soft lips felt against yours.

‘A-ah, what-‘

You felt something prodding at your entrance, his squishy tip forcing your walls to spread around him. You gasped, feeling your insides stretch to accommodate his average size. You certainly weren’t expecting that.

Taking the opportunity as it presented itself, his tongue slithered it’s way into your mouth without a second thought, twirling around yours as you shared spit. He slid inside of you inch by inch, groaning into your mouth as he finally bottomed out. He could feel your cervix kissing his tip, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head in ecstasy. He missed this- missed you.

Supporting his weight on his palms, his arms rested against your head as he dragged his hips slowly back and forth. Usually your love making was a lot more intense, rough. It was pounding that left you sore for days with a limp in your step. But right now, you were both making up for the days you’d been without each other. Right now, you needed each other more than you needed to finish.

You could feel his balls making contact with your ass as he thrusted in and out of you, your vaginal walls stretching and tightening as he entered and left you. You feel so fucking full with him inside of you, realising how much you missed being stuffed with everything he had to give. Your juices were dripping down his cock, watching droplets of sweat gather on his forehead as he worked you both closer to your orgasm.

‘Can I hold you, please?’ you looked up at him, not missing the way his eyes clenched shut before dropping onto you like a bag of potatoes. You wrapped your arms around him, legs coming up to encompass his waist as he continued to make you both feel good.

‘I love you,’ Tate moaned, arms coming down to pull your thighs up into him, making sure you take every inch of him. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you, I love-‘

‘I love you too,’ you cry out, brain going blank as the blonde boy randomly sped up his rhythm. Every thrust of his hips had him pulling you up onto his cock, genitals rubbing together as he took everything from you that he could. Every drag of his dick inside of you, every kiss of your lips. He didn’t know what he would do if he were to lose it all again, if he lost you.

Reaching between your sweaty bodies, he circled your clit as he pounded into you harder than before. Your cunt tightened, the pressure building in your muscles becoming so much you felt ready to explode. You were going to snap, the floodgates were going to open and you were going to cum all over Tate Langdon’s cock. You looked fucked out and exhausted, your body ready to give out as you took his last few thrusts.

‘Shit, cumming-‘

Your cunt spasmed as you came undone around him, ears ringing as you writhed and squirmed in his hold. You could feel his ejaculate shooting into you, painting your walls white with his cum. He slowly fucked it into you, noting with a dozy smile how great it was he was dead and couldn’t impregnate you. Well, not likely, he soon grimaced.

After a few more slow, gentle thrusts, Tate removed his flaccid cock from your sopping hole as he turned to lay beside you. You both turned to each other at the same time, loopy smiles on both faces that neither had the energy or care to try and hide.

You finally felt whole again.

‘Are you done? It’s not just you in this basement, you know.’

Hayden’s shrill voice calls out, her tone less than pleased at the sight of you two, fucked out on the ground.

‘Jealous?’ Tate remarked, wrapping his arm around you as he pulled you into his chest. You burned red in shame at forgetting your location, which just so happened to be the hub of every single dead person in the house.

‘Fuck you.’

first attempt at smut lol, hope was okay. feedback would be appreciated! <3

[7-wonders]

At the Edge of the Universe

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

Summary: It’s time to meet the residents of Outpost 3 as Michael begins his interviews to see who will make it to the Sanctuary (spoiler alert: not many).

Word count: 4.1k

A note from the author: Surprise Mad Love drop! We are down to our last three or four chapters, can you believe it? I've told myself that I'm not allowed to write anything else until I finish this, so expect updates semi-frequently. Goal is to get this bad boy finished by June! As always—hope you enjoy, and remember that likes, comments, and reblogs make my world go round!

Mad Love Masterlist

This is your fourth Outpost visit, and as you look out at the small crowd of survivors gathered in the sitting room of Outpost 3, you believe that you can confidently say that every one of them looks exactly the same.

Not appearance-wise, of course. Overseers are allowed to establish their own rules for their respective Outposts, including wardrobes. Most had been pretty laidback, actually. Outpost 3 is by far the most draconian, and you’re already regretting not pushing back on Michael’s decision to have you join him as you sweat in your stiff Victorian gown.

Though outfits and rules may change, what doesn’t is the faces. Every single time, when you and Michael arrive and make your introductions, the faces of the survivors are filled with hope. The hope of new drama, the hope of continued survival, the hope of a way out of the Outpost. It’s so familiar now, and each time, it’s pained you to see. These people that the apocalypse has spared, whether due to circumstance or societal standing, have no idea that they’re just pawns in Michael’s game of chess. No, worse than pawns. They’re nothing but dolls, amusement for Michael to play with before tossing them to the side like they’re worthless.

“My name is Langdon,” Michael starts. Instead of introducing you, he looks to you to introduce yourself, and you press your lips together to keep from smirking. Oh, he’s so going to regret this.

He immediately does the moment that you introduce yourself with your first and last name. Your legal last name, the one you were born with, and not that of your infernal husband. You can feel him looking at you, surely with barely-contained rage. Instead of looking back, you simply smile warmly at the occupants of Outpost 3, waiting for Michael to get back with the program.

“We won’t sugarcoat the situation,” he says after a brief stumble. “Humanity is on the brink of failure. Our arrival here is crucial to the survival of civilized life on Earth.”

There are a couple of other things that don’t change from Outpost to Outpost, you note as you watch the interaction that unfolds. The questions, for instance, are almost always the same, and almost always asked out of turn in a way that is guaranteed to infuriate Michael. What happened to everybody, what’s the Sanctuary, will some survive, etc. You clock every single question—even robot Ms. Mead’s, though that one wasn’t too surprising since you knew how she was reprogrammed—and listen as Michael gives the same answers that he always does.

Something else that doesn’t change? The abject lust displayed by a good contingent of the survivors. Michael’s a very attractive man, which you obviously know. 18 months is a long time to be surrounded by a very small amount of people day in and day out, and now that there’s fresh blood offering them a chance at salvation, they’ll do anything to convince him that they’re worthy. You frown as the survivors jockey for his attention, to be first. 

Not because you’re jealous or anything. It seems as though the only aspect of Michael’s personality that has remained untouched through his rebirth into a full-fledged Antichrist is his devotion to you. No, you frown because you know that Michael loves to use this to his advantage. After all, lust is one of the seven deadly sins.

“What was that?” Michael asks after the introduction is over and as soon as the doors close behind you in the office in which the interviews will be conducted. 

“What?” you ask coyly, playing a game of your own.

“You know what.”

“Oh, that?” Michael nods exasperatedly. “Langdon’s not my last name.”

You’re not sure if he looks more angered or bewildered, though the combination does have a pleasing shade of red creeping up his neck. “Of course it is, you’re my wife!”

“Not legally,” you retort.

“Well, we can’t exactly go to a courthouse to make it legal.”

“Hmm, maybe you should have waited for us to get to the point where I wanted to get legally married before ending the world.”

Michael’s jaw clenches, and he smirks. “Clever, though I have to say that your attitude is getting old.”

“And yours isn’t?”

You’re both breathing heavily as you glare, daring the other to continue. You fight with Michael so often now that this is a familiar dance, and you know the next move. He goes to kiss you, and though you’re certainly tempted, you put a hand up to stop him.

“No! No, we are not having sex right now.” You try to sound convincing, though you might be attempting to convince yourself more than Michael. It’s just so easy to resort to sex. It’s the one thing that you both agree on in this new world—that you’re good at having sex together. Plus, that’s one of the only times that you don’t completely hate him, and though it pains you to admit it, you look forward to those moments when you forget why you should think him a monster.

Michael raises an eyebrow. “We could, though.”

“No.” 

To drive the point home, you put as much space between you as possible and go to the desk that holds all of the files of every Outpost 3 resident. If there’s one thing that gets Michael’s mind out of the gutter, it’s talking about his magnum opus: the apocalypse.

“What’s Dinah doing here?” That had been quite the shock, to greet Outpost 3 and find yourself meeting the eyes of the (now former, you suppose) voodoo queen. Though her own had widened in a frightened recognition, she looked down at her hands and kept her gaze there for the remainder of the meeting. The man next to her, her son, was one of those who instantly fell a little bit in love with Michael.

“She bought her spot, just like all the other rich fucks.”

“So she won’t be joining us back at the Sanctuary,” you tease.

“Absolutely not, especially now that I have no use for her and her powers.” 

Ever since ending the world, Michael’s powers have blossomed into a whole different beast. He’s so powerful now that you don’t even know the extent, and you don’t think you want to. Where before, he would have needed the help of a voodoo queen or the Supreme when doing something especially complicated or out of his wheelhouse (such as enlisting Dinah’s help when you ate Satan’s poisoned apple or getting a spell from Mallory to reveal the ghost of Cordelia Goode), now, their powers would be worthless to him. You’re no expert when it comes to magic, but you think that his power must be equal to at least ten Supremes.

You certainly don’t want to test that theory.

“How many survivors will be accompanying us back to the Sanctuary, do you think?” you ask.

“Considering I’m not hopeful about interviews, there will be two. A man and a woman, both selected for their optimal genetics.” The interviews are never something to be hopeful over, because they almost always are a disappointment. In the other twelve Outposts, there have been a total of nine survivors that impressed Michael enough with interviews alone that he spared them from their original fates and gave them a spot at the Sanctuary.

“If I had to guess, I’d say it’s the two that are very obviously in love with each other.”

“Which ones?”

You rifle through the folders until you find two with pictures that match who you were looking at in the library. “These two. Timothy and Emily.”

He looks up at you curiously. “How could you tell?”

“When they weren’t watching you, they were staring at each other.” 

Though the two were sat across the room from each other, their eyes were continually drawn together like magnets of differing polarities. You’re a little shocked that Michael couldn’t tell, considering his ‘night vision of the soul,’ as he calls it.

You just call it his creepy Antichrist powers.

You try not to, but you find yourself beginning to look through all of the files. They’re all fairly simple; a headshot, a bio, medical information. Really, Michael only uses them to look official and mysterious as he begins to pick their personalities apart bit by bit. For you however, they help to get to know the survivors, even just a little bit.

That’s precisely why you don’t like looking through these, why you don’t like these visits at all. Because knowing them, and knowing their ultimate fates, is something that makes you sick. Maybe that’s the price you’re forced to pay by the universe for being the Antichrist’s wife. You’re forced to be complicit in the continued mind games and eventual deaths of these people who thought that they were somehow safe after the bombs dropped.

Michael scoffs at the next file you flip open. “That’s one interview I’m dreading.”

“Her?”

“Mhm, Coco St. Pierre Vanderbilt.” His words drip with disdain.

Coco…the name strikes some level of familiarity, but you can’t remember where you would have met a Coco. She didn’t look familiar when you saw her and her…interesting hair in the sitting room. She’s obviously a socialite, so maybe she was trending for some scandal or another in the Before. It’s so hard to remember that time, not only for the pain, but because it feels like an entire lifetime ago. 

(Was it really only eighteen months ago that you were preparing for graduation, scrolling through social media, and participating in regular 21st-century society?)

One person who does look familiar? The white-haired stylist whose work Coco sports and the one who claimed the first interview spot before anybody else, Mr. Gallant. You’d recognize him anywhere—his confidence in you was one of the sole reasons you had the courage to go down the stairs and join Michael for your first Cooperative function. But as for him?

“Mr. Gallant didn’t recognize us,” you broach.

“No, he wouldn’t. Those whose services are needed by the Cooperative but aren’t trusted enough to keep their mouths shut are…conditioned to forget.”

“You brainwash them,” you clarify.

“I don’t.” His lips twitch at his own joke. Of course, he doesn’t. That would be getting his hands dirty, which he hates doing, especially now that he has all the resources in the (under)world at his disposal.

“My bad.”

“You’re so interested in this group of survivors. Does that mean you’ll be joining me for interviews?”

When you joined Michael for the first time, at Outpost 6, you said yes when he asked you this question. It was something different, after all, and you were at first interested in being a part of the process and getting to know some new survivors. Of course, this was all before you actually sat in on the first couple of interviews and witnessed Michael’s interview ‘style’ firsthand.

You roll your eyes. “Ugh, no. I hate all the weird sexual tension you have with everyone you interview.”

Naturally, Michael gets the wrong idea and thinks that you’re jealous. He places his hands on the arms of your chair, and leans in until he can meet your eyes. “You’re my one and only, you know that.”

“I do.” You stare back at him unflinchingly. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”

“The sexual tension or that you’re my soulmate?” You simply raise an eyebrow in response, and Michael sighs before straightening up. “Well, a Gray should be arriving at any moment with Mr. Gallant, so if you don’t want to see any ‘weird sexual tension,’ I would suggest leaving now.” 

“Alright then, guess I’ll give myself a tour around ol’ Hawthorne.”

Michael pouts. “I was planning on taking you around tonight after Venable’s curfew.”

“Oh, that sucks. Have fun.” You give him a friendly pat on the shoulder as you leave the room.

Outpost 3 isn’t the largest Outpost you’ve visited, but it’s still pretty expansive. In most cases, this would mean lots of exploring to do. Unfortunately, it seems that Ms. Venable has stripped this place of anything that would make it unique. Hall after hall looks exactly the same in a way that would be disorienting if you weren’t keeping track of your whereabouts. The same boring, gray walls, the same black doors, the same frightened Grays scurrying around.

(If you had to pick the worst part about this Outpost so early on, you’d have to go with the forced servitude of some of the survivors here. Most of the other Outposts had a glorified chore chart that distributed tasks equally among survivors. Others had special privileges given to those who volunteered to work. This system? Well, this system has you hoping that Michael’s especially tough on Ms. Venable during her interview.)

After coming to the unfortunate conclusion that this is about as interesting as it’s going to get for you, you make your way back to where it all started: the library. This room at least has some character, between the fireplace and the music playing. Yes, it might be the same song on repeat, played on a vintage radio, but at least it’s something. 

As it turns out, you won’t be alone. The two that you had noticed earlier, the ones that couldn’t keep their eyes off of each other, are holding hands and whispering to each other on the couch. They spring apart when you enter, and it’s obvious that they’re not expecting anybody to see them. Their attitude, and the way they’re trying to play it off like they weren’t conspiring, gives you pause. What other severe rules has Ms. Venable imposed on those under her care?

“Hello,” you smile at the two warmly in between appraising the titles on the shelves. “Timothy and Emily, right? It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Timothy says warily.

Emily, who doesn’t have that same tact, immediately gets to her question. “Are you here to interview us?”

You shake your head. “No, I let Langdon do the interviewing.”

“So…what do you want with us?”

“I don’t want anything with you. I am trying to find some entertainment, because this place is already incredibly boring and I’ve barely been here six hours.”

Timothy laughs. “Yeah, that doesn’t really get better.”

They watch as you continue to peruse the books, waiting to see if this is some sort of trap devised by you and Michael. It’s not—you genuinely just want to find a book you haven’t read yet and escape to your bedroom for a few quiet hours. Unfortunately, nothing is modern here, not even the books, and you end up settling on Frankenstein, which you’ve read a couple of times now. 

“Is it alright if we ask you a couple of questions?” Timothy asks when you turn back around.

So much for a quiet few hours.

You sigh and sit down on the couch opposite the pair. “I can’t guarantee that I can answer all of them, but I’ll certainly try.”

“What’s it like out there?” Timothy asks the question, but both his and Emily’s eyes shine, desperate for any sort of news about the world outside the walls of Outpost 3. You wish you had better to share with them.

“Lawless. You remember the movies about the apocalypse?” They nod. “It’s worse than that. The world is completely unrecognizable, decimated by the bombs. If it weren’t for a map, I wouldn’t even know where we are. Those who survived the blast have been affected by the radiation from the fallout in the most terrible of ways. They have…sores and growths and cancer, all over their bodies. People kill each other for the smallest scrap of clothing. I’ve seen cannibals picking clean the bones of someone they once traveled with, someone that was once their friend.”

“My god,” Emily mutters.

“When M-–Langdon traveled to Outpost 2, his carriage was almost overrun by a band of survivors. They believed there was food inside, and even if there wasn’t, they wanted the chance to hurt somebody that hadn’t yet been hurt by nuclear fallout.” 

That had been a terrifying ordeal to hear Michael recount. He wasn’t scared at all, knowing both that the radiation couldn’t hurt him and that he could (did) kill all of them with the snap of his fingers. But you were, for the simple fact that the world that you had once lived in was completely gone and replaced by one where people hunted each other out of necessity, because it might be the only true meal they could eat in weeks.

“How did he get out of it?” Timothy wonders.

The true answer obviously isn’t something that you’re able to share, so you instead go with what would have been the answer if it were any other member of the Cooperative in the carriage. “The bodies of the carriage have an electric current that can be activated in case of emergency. The attackers were all electrocuted with the push of a button.”

“Langdon mentioned a Sanctuary,” Emily says. “Is that where you live?”

“We both do.”

“What’s it like?” Timothy asks, while at the same time, Emily questions, “Where is it?”

“The Sanctuary is…well, it feels like the world never ended, that it just moved underground. As for the location, I’m afraid that’s classified.” You smile sympathetically, feeling a lot like Michael.

Now that this line of communication has been established, that Emily and Timothy now feel like they can trust you, you can practically see the plethora of questions that they want to ask.

“So how do you end up working for an organization like the Cooperative?”

Now that’s a question you haven’t been asked before. “It’s kind of a long story,” you say with an awkward laugh, wracking your brain to come up with a lie convincing enough that they believe it.

Before you can, the sound of a cane clicking slowly across the floor stops you. You look in the direction of the entryway, where none other than your dour host stands. Her bright orange hair stands in stark contrast to the rest of her outfit, black like yours. She smiles at you with darkly painted lips, but it’s a smile that holds absolutely no warmth.

“Dinner is served,” she announces.

The three of you stand, but only two start to follow Ms. Venable to the kitchen. “I’ll take my leave, then,” you say.

“You won’t be joining us?” She sounds a tad incredulous, as though nobody’s told her no in quite some time. That’s likely the case.

“The Cooperative supplies us with rations of our own, so as not to take from the Outposts’ stockpiles.”

It’s technically true. Michael would rather starve than eat the gelatinous cubes that constitute nutrition, and thanks to the endless powers he’s gifted with, meals remain the same as they are when at the Sanctuary.

“We shall see you tomorrow, then.”

You nod before smiling at Emily and Timothy. “It was nice talking to you.”

As you walk towards the office, you can already hear Venable questioning what it was that you talked about, trying to determine if the two gained an edge on making it to the Sanctuary. If only she knew that they’re practically guaranteed spots, you think with a quiet laugh.

Michael arrives at the office at the same time as you do, which is odd, considering he’s meant to be inside the office conducting his interviews. He takes your hand and kisses the back of it gently before opening the doors and leading you in.

“Where were you?” you ask.

He waves a hand and the doors close behind you. “Finishing up an interview.”

“Doing a little field work?”

“Something like that. Now, I’m starving, and I would very much like to enjoy dinner with some good company.”

At first, you felt a little bad eating your favorite foods while the rest of the inhabitants were forced to eat what was left of their rations. Why should you enjoy while they suffer? And then, you met the survivors, most of whom were filthy rich, and you felt okay with it.

Now, as you sit across from Michael enjoying an actual meal, you allow yourself to pretend for a little bit that your life is still as it was before the end. That this is a regular day after classes, and you’re eating a quick meal and enjoying the company of the man you love before you’re off to finish homework, go to an activity, or just hang out with friends. You miss the simplicity that you didn’t know you had, even still after eighteen months.

“How were your interviews?” you ask, trying to bask in that normalcy for as long as you can.

“Nothing to write home about, though I did learn that Ms. Venable is…shockingly self-conscious beneath her hard exterior.”

You scoff. “And that’s surprising to you?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“I talked with Emily and Timothy,” you mention.

“Please tell me they’re not as vapid as the rest of the inhabitants of this Outpost.”

“No, they’re…actually kinda cool.”

If you’re being honest with yourself, the reason that you immediately liked them so much is because they kind of remind you of you and Michael, before the apocalypse. They’re so in love with each other, so eager to just be near one another and enjoy their presence. It brings you back to New Orleans, walking through the market arm in arm as you searched for the perfect gift for Kate and he eagerly shared what he had learned when looking up grad schools for you. What you wouldn’t give to be showing him how to catch fireflies, or enjoying a sugary treat together.

Shouting sounds from downstairs, a loud argument starting to take place and distracting you from your thoughts. While you strain to try and hear what’s being yelled about, Michael simply smirks. “Took them long enough.”

Neither of you is surprised, because this is what always happens when Michael arrives at an Outpost. He, quite literally, brings Hell with him. It’s an interesting side effect of what happens when an Antichrist inhabits your space. Those walls that people put up, the rules that they live their lives by, crumble when the living embodiment of sin walks in. From there, it’s only a matter of time until everything unravels and they begin giving in to those seven deadly sins. As you listen to wrath begin to cloud minds, you can practically see Michael becoming more powerful thanks to it.

Later, wrath continues, along with a side of lust.

High-pitched shrieking, so different from the argumentative yelling of earlier, wakes you from the dozing you had taken to while trying to read Michael’s interview reports after dinner. You scramble to sit up in your chair, looking at Michael with wide eyes.

“What was that?” you ask.

He doesn’t even tear his eyes away from the computer to look at you, simply waving a hand nonchalantly. “Oh, Timothy and Emily have just been caught having sex. They’re about to be executed.”

“What?” You stand up in alarm, sure that this is actual cause for alarm. Michael, on the other hand, doesn’t even react to your reaction. “Michael!” you snap, desperately wanting him to show some kind of humanity.

Finally, he turns around in his chair and sighs as though you’re interrupting your work, which you know for a fact you’re not. “Yes?”

“We can’t let them die.”

“We won’t.”

You look at him in disbelief, because it sure looks like he’s going to let them die. “Then why aren’t you stopping this?”

Michael finally joins you in standing, taking your hands in his and squeezing reassuringly. “It’s sweet of you to worry about them, and I promise you that they will not die before reaching the Sanctuary. I’ll stop this when the time is right. First, however,” he smiles, “I’d like to enjoy their terror for a bit.”

“Every time I think you can’t possibly let me down more than you already have, you prove me wrong.” 

Michael’s face falls at the barb that hits unexpectedly deep, but you don’t have it in you to claim any sort of victory in this. Anger, that heady emotion that’s fueled you up until now, has completely left you at this latest example of Michael’s lack of humanity. All that remains now is disappointment, and it’s a disappointment that leaves you tired. Tired of these games, tired of the life that you’ve found yourself in, tired of being able to do nothing but watch.

Except, you can do something this time. In this Outpost, you have the same amount of power as Michael. With that in mind, you pull your hands free and make for the door.

“C’mon, where are you going?” Michael calls after you.

You don’t answer him, because he knows as well as you. If he won’t put a stop to this, then you will.

///

Tag List: @thatonehumanbeing05 @xavierplympton @hecohansen31 @codycrazy @love-on-the-murder-scene @michaellangdonswhore @nsainmoonchild @aftertheglitterfades @iamlivingforturner @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @angistopit @littleangel4996 @xo-angel-ox @ajokeformur-ray @iamavailablesstuff

[lotties-ashwagandha]

CURSED (nsfw)

billie dean howard x gn!reader, word count 1.2k

the premiere of the new season of billie's show gets rescheduled last minute, but you have a way to take her mind off the disappointment.

A harsh silence enveloped the two of you. You were sitting at the edge of Billie’s bed, and you watched as she set her phone down on the vanity and began to pace the length of the room. 

The premiere of her show had been rescheduled on short notice. You were meant to fly out with her tomorrow for press meetings, interviews, every opportunity for recognition Billie deserved for her work. Your suitcases were packed and ready at the foot of the bed. 

Billie looked into the mirror of the vanity, sighing as she fixed a non-existent flaw of her eye makeup with the edge of her pale pink acrylics. 

You were at a loss for what to do – you had tried comforting her verbally, but she had barely said a word to you in the minutes after receiving the call. She got like this often when she was upset, silent and uninterested and cynical. 

You stood from the bed. Tentatively you stepped toward her. You placed your hands on her waist when you came up behind her, resting your chin on her shoulder and watching her reflection in the mirror. 

Disappointment swam in her eyes as she stared unfocused into her own reflection. You knew how much she had been looking forward to the premiere. Even if it would take place in a few weeks instead of tomorrow, the two of you had been planning this weekend for months. 

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, “that it was canceled. I know how excited you were.” 

Billie nodded, taking one of your hands in her own. She offered you a halfhearted smile in the reflection of the mirror. “You didn’t cause it, don’t apologize.” 

In response, you pressed a kiss to her neck, the junction where her neck met her shoulder. After a moment you kissed her again, and began to move up her neck, trailing kisses up to her jaw. You felt her relax slightly under your touch, a great sigh leaving her chest. 

Billie turned in your arms. She kissed you, bringing a hand up to rest at your jaw and looping her arms around you. The kiss was almost lazy, natural and reflexive to the two of you. You were overcome by the love evident in her touch. 

She pulled away only for a moment before capturing your lips again. This time, you felt hunger in her embrace – in the way her lips met yours in a way dripping with desperation, in the way she was backing you towards the bed. 

You denied your instinct to let her push you onto the bed – you wanted this, and she did too, but you wanted to give her more. You wanted her to feel the same euphoria she often gave you before herself, especially after the evening’s disappointment. She needed distraction, as was evident in every moment you spent in her arms, and you were always willing to give it. 

You turned her, reversing your positions. A look of surprise came over her features as the backs of her thighs pressed against the bed. 

You hadn’t said anything, but she nodded at the proposed switch in roles, and when you tried to push her down onto the bed, she let you. Billie pulled you down on top of her, slipping her hands under the hem of your shirt and letting them travel up your back. In a moment of impatience she pulled your shirt off and tossed it to the floor. 

You grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head. “Keep them there,” you warned her with a stern look, and she smiled at you in amusement. You hardly ever took dominance over her, it was foreign to both of you, but you were enjoying it. 

“This is new,” she taunted, unserious, yet you could see the desire clawing at her through the mask of her ego. “You’re learning, and so well.” 

You shook your head, brushing off her comment. You didn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer, pulling off her blouse and attaching your lips to her chest. Her breath caught as you trailed kisses down her sternum, nipping at her chest, leaving marks in your wake as you traveled down her abdomen. 

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmured into her skin, and a slight blush overtook her features. She shifted restlessly – her anticipation was evident, beautiful in the fervor with which she needed you. You understood why she was usually so addicted to you underneath her, you were drunk on the power of having her need nothing in the world but you. 

You moved between her legs, and instinctively her hips bucked toward you. As you pulled the rest of her clothes off she let out another sigh, this time out of pleasure, out of desire. 

With air-light touches you caressed her thighs. Slowly you kissed up the length of them, watching her expression closely. Desperation overtook her features, and her breath was shaky. One of her hands had moved to weave into your hair, a wordless plea for your attention. 

Just as she thought relief would finally come between her thighs, you moved away. With a look of satisfaction you climbed back up her body, straddling her, leaning down to kiss her. 

“What are you doing?” she asked in a whine. No one ever denied Billie anything, especially you. 

You shrugged. You trailed your hand down her abdomen, let it rest at her hip as you watched her squirm. “Beg.” 

She scoffed. She shook her head. “I’m not begging.” 

With a tantalizing smile you moved your hands away. Her only form of contact was the way you were straddling her. “Prove how much you want this. Beg for it, or you get nothing.” 

She sighed, and desire won over her pride, though it was not without a battle of ego. “Please,” she said. “Please, I need this. You know I need this, I need you.” 

You considered her words a victory, one of the scarce victories of dominance you took over her. In reward you slipped back between her legs. Finally relief came to her, your tongue sliding through her wetness. Billie moaned, her hips bucking into you again. You held them down, circling your arms around her tense thighs. 

You focused yourself on her clit, noting every response her body gave to your ministrations. Her moans, her whines let freely go as you slipped two fingers into her. She gasped, her new grip in your hair tightening dramatically as you set a pace that was quickly ruining her. 

Though earlier she had been utterly opposed that you’d made her beg, quiet pleas spilled from her lips as you brought her closer to the edge. Your name on her tongue like a curse, like poison you would drink from the fountain of your devotion. 

“Cum for me,” you murmured when she was close, and her body responded immediately – you coaxed her through her climax, the pace of your tongue and your hand working in sequence to prolong it as much as you could for her. 

When she came down from it, you pulled away. You laid at her side, pulling her into you to press a kiss to her shoulder and then to her lips, the two of you engulfed in the softness of her newfound peace. Billie relaxed into your embrace, letting you hold her as exhaustion overtook her. Peace found you both in inexplicable wonder, anxiety cursed in your devotion.