#Echo Langdon

[scryptids]

location: somewhere in the middle district

closed starter for: @feastonkings (echo)

"okay, so we need to find something to do before i absolutely lose my marbles." auden seemed to be restless; sitting at home wasn't doing it for her, and wandering around aimlessly wasn't doing it for her either. "and i can't go to the book nook just yet, because i fucked up and the little brunette behind the counter nearly killed me, so that scratches that off the list." she sighed, turning towards echo. "give me ideas, dweeb. i say that affectionately."

[im-ovulating]

I think Tate should pin reader to a wall and fuck her. W me deserve a treat this Halloween season, and slutty Tate is such a nice thing.

(A/n: I think that's the best idea you've had yet. Slutty Tate is really all I need in this life🫠)

(Forgive the writing rust, it's been a minute)

(Not proofread)

(Pretend it's still October for me, yeah?)

Word Count: 1,611

Summary- Run, baby, run.

Warnings: Chasing, Unprotected Sex

Age Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Tate Langdon x Fem! Reader: Run

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

"Oh, my fucking god, Tate!" You screech as you use the banister to make a sharp turn. Tate thunders down the stairs after you in that stupid mask he found.

"C'mon~" He rasps out. "Don't you wanna play?~"

You round the kitchen island, circling it to keep distance between you. His vocal fry makes your cheeks burn; the innuendo in his phrasing doing nothing to help the heat.

"Don't -" You cut yourself off with a scream as Tate all but lunges around the island at you.

And you're running again, through the living room, past the home office, until you spot the basement door in your peripheral. You shoot off towards it, ripping the door open and sprinting down the stairs. You use the support pillars to your advantage, losing him in the maze that you call a basement.

You can hear his heavy steps as he taunts you. Boot clad feet clicking and echoing through the dark room.

"Y/n~" He singsongs. "Come out, come out wherever you are~"

His voice is muffled by the mask.

You slip around the last outcropped wall and plaster your back to the brick.

A shiver runs up your spine and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end as it suddenly goes deadly silent. The only sound in the damp room is your ragged breathing that gets poorly muffled by your hands.

Why did you think the basement was a good idea? You've done nothing but effectively trap yourself.

You're a sitting duck down here. Your best chance at escaping him is if you can manage to get back up the stairs and make a break for the front door. In theory, it's easy. The door is just a few paces to the right of the basement. But this is a ghost you're dealing with - nothing is that simple with him.

Nonetheless, once you steady your breathing, you start inching your way back to the steps.

Thank the gods you decided to put off putting your shoes on; your socks make your steps silent as you scoot around a corner. Your eyes adjusting to the pitch black does nothing to quell your paranoia; if anything, it merely heightens it. The knowledge that you could turn your head at any point at be face to face with your pursuer has your heart frantically beating against your ribs as if aching to smash through the bone. The quiet roars in your ears as you strain to hear even the slightest shuffle in the dark.

Wait-

No. That was your pulse in your ears...

'Where is he..?'

Every step you take feels like it's being watched like a hawk, and, at this point, you don't know if you're just psyching yourself out or not. Something moves in the corner of your eye, but when you whip around, you're met with nothing.

'This isn't funny anymore...' your mind unhelpfully supplies.

Taking a shuddering breath, you make up your mind and call out into the pitch.

"Tate? Please, this isn't fun anymo-"

A hand covers your mouth, an arm snaking across your stomach to drag you back. You thrash, desperately trying to rip the hand off. Your protests remain muffled as your captor pins you face-first to the nearest wall.

"Gotcha~" Tate quips, his breath fanning your neck. "Are you scared, baby?"

So, he ditched the mask... 'Finally,' you can't help but think.

You shake your head despite the answer being an obvious 'yes'. You can feel his cock pressing into your ass, getting harder with each passing second.

"No?" His hand slips from your mouth to your jaw, tilting your head back, "Liar."

With that, Tate slams his mouth to yours, hungry and not afraid to satiate himself.

You know it's wrong. That being hunted down and caught shouldn't make you feel this way, but it does. It does. It makes your tummy get all hot and fuzzy - makes your head cloudy and hazy.

And Tate knows it.

He knows this dirty little secret of yours and loves to entice it. Because, just as much as you love the chase, he loves the hunt.

The arm around you slides down until his hand can slip into your pants.

"Not only are you a liar -" he murmurs into the kiss, "- but you love that you're scared. I bet you're soaking through your panties, too, aren't ya?"

His fingers finally reach your folds, easily stroking you with all the slick that's shamefully accumulated. "Knew it~"

Tate breaks the kiss and pulls his hand out. Lifting his hand to your lips, he barely has to mutter out an 'open' before you're accepting the digits into your mouth.

You can feel his dark eyes boring into you as you suck your own juices from his fingers.

"Good girl..." His thumbs along your jaw with his free hand before pulling his digits from your mouth.

Tate turns you around and pins you to the wall once more before leaning down to kiss you again. It feels like he's devouring you; eager to eat you until there's nothing left for him to take. His tongue slips past your lips, tasting all you have to offer and still some. It's when he starts to work at your jeans that you pull away.

"Down here?" You ask, as you attempt to catch your breath. Tate makes that easier said than done by shifting to focus on your neck.

You can feel the shit-eating smirk that spreads against your neck as he mumbles out a "Why not? You had no problem soaking your panties down here."

He belts out a laugh at your offended gasp and as much as you want to snark back, you can't deny that he's right. So, instead, you huff out an "Asshole" as you relax against the wall. Wasting no time, Tate shoves your jeans down until you're able to kick them off; after unbuckling his own, he hikes your leg up and lines his cockhead with your entrance with an almost evil grin.

"Tate, don't you fucking dar-" You're cut off with a yelp as he shoves himself to the hilt with one motion.

"You love it," he grunts. And you do.

He pulls out to the tip before thrusting back in. Again and again, he builds up to a frenzied rhythm as the wet sounds of your arousal echo through the basement and all you can think is how glad you are that you're the only one home.

You can feel the staccato of your heartbeat as it mirrors his trusts.

You can barely breathe with how hard he's slamming into you, but he still has you all but clawing at his back, so it's not like you can complain. He isn't much better with how he's basically growling into your neck, sucking and biting a pattern into your skin as he fucks into you.

"How are you still so fucking tight?" He groans out, grinding his cock into you before pulling out. Tate flips you around once more before pushing back in.

Your cheek scrapes against the wall with a few trusts before you're able to get your palms against it. Using your new leverage, you start to press back, meeting him trust for thrust as he draws out grunts and groans from both of you.

The hot, wet slide of him in your cunt has your brain going empty of anything but Tate and the growing need to cum. You can feel the steady build up, the tension mounting in your muscles as he guides you closer and closer to the edge.

You're not even sure what sounds your making; all you can hear is the heavy breathing and growled curses that Tate is releasing. His hands snuck up to play with your tits at some point and with each tug and pinch, your back arches more and more as electricity starts to crackle in your veins.

"God, I'm close," you pant out. "Please, Tate..."

You feel the tip of his nose trail up your neck as he inhales your scent. "You gonna cum for me, pretty girl?" He mumbles once his lips meet the skin just below your ear.

He slips one of his hands back down to your clit, "Then cum."

With one last tug to the sensitive nerve, your vision blurs as you cry out his name. The static in your limbs shoots out, spreading through your fingers and toes and tosses your head back against his shoulder. You don't even register your legs going out until Tate's arm tightens around your waist, keeping you up as he chases his own release.

"Hold on, baby," He rasps, "Just hold on for me a little longer-"

The continued stimulation keeps your eyes shut as your forced to take what he gives. Any rhythm he had is gone as he pounds into your cunt like an animal; you could cry out in relief once you feel his hips start to stutter. And you do. As soon as you can feel the thick, hot ropes of his cum pump into you, the tears fall; the overstimulation makes your legs quiver, but ecstasy still hums in your veins.

You don't register the muttered praises Tate presses into your shoulder until your breathing evens out and your heart stops hammering in your ears. "You with me, Pretty?"

Nodding, you test your legs, finally taking the strain off of Tate, though his arm stays firmly locked around your waist. Blinking the remaining blurriness from your eyes, you turn your head to face him before getting pulled into a kiss.

"There she is," he whispers against your lips.

(3 years and I still don't know how to end smut🤪)

[trueangel420]

Tate Langdon, first person shooter. ౨ৎ

Your fingers lightly brushed against the Nirvana posters as you walked in, your eyes wandering, taking in every detail. Curiosity led you to his closet. Opening the door, you discovered sleek, black metallic objects hung up neatly, each one holstered and gleaming. His voice was hushed, his hands resting gently on your waist, his head tucked into the crook of your neck.

“You like them?” Tate asked, noticing you surveying his guns. “Yes,” you breathed, your eyes widening as you watched his hand move off your waist and reach for one in front of you. He made sure to hold it further away from you, his other hand still on your hip.“This one is small,” he murmured, his tone low and soft.

“It’s a pistol, a D1911,” he said as if you knew what that meant. You didn’t care; you were mesmerized by the way his large hands gripped it, his veins prominent as he flexed his hand around the trigger. “Wanna hold it?” he hummed. You held out your hand. He fiddled with the bottom of it, removing the magazine and emptying the bullets into his palm before stuffing them into his back pocket. He flicked on the safety next, then placed the cold, heavy metal into your hand. It felt so much larger in your small palm. “Oh it’s cold..” you gasped, wrapping your fingers around it tighter. He shifted you in front of his full-length mirror. “Thumbs forward, mhm, push your hips back,” he instructed. You followed his directions, his body pressing against yours. “Hold it up to the mirror, yeah… like that, perfect,” he said, smirking slightly, his eyes never leaving you. A part of him was excited seeing you like this, he fought to stop himself from groaning at the sight. “You look good like this, holding my gun, y'know,” he murmured. Your eyes found his dark ones, and he stared at you intensely, taking in the way you held it up to the mirror. He could feel you shiver under his gaze, and he didn’t care—seeing you like this was thrilling. “I have knives too,” he whispered. It was true; he had plenty of knives and guns, like his own personal military locker. You wanted to question him, but the words wouldn’t come out—not when he looked at you like that.

The desire was palpable; you could feel his hunger in the way his eyes raked over your figure. His hand held onto yours gently, and holding his hand was always an experience you cherished. His hand engulfed yours, making you feel small yet protected. “Pull the trigger. It’s not loaded,” he breathed out. Your fingers pressed down on the trigger, the pistol making a faint click.

click click click

“Does that feel good?” he murmured, his tone gravelly and hushed. “Is it supposed to?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly. He nodded, his finger trailing down your arm. “It feels good to me.” Your lips parted at his confession, and his face flushed as he pressed his front against your back. “You feel good,”he said softly, his hands gently taking the gun from yours. He held it next to your face. “Tate... why would it feel good?” you stammered, warmth creeping onto your cheeks. “The gun or you?” he smiled, looking at the pistol in his hand. “The gun,” you replied, your voice barely a whisper. “What does the gun make you feel, Tate?” you added, looking up at him, your neck craning to bridge the height difference. “Makes me feel excited, makes me feel… strong,” he answered, his eyes dark and intense. You swallowed, looking at his hand gripping the gun almost like it was muscle memory. Maybe it was; maybe he had used it before, but... “You are strong,” you murmured to him. "Stronger like this," he said, gently pointing the gun towards your head. Your eyes widened, but you couldn't look away. “Exciting,” he murmured, the faint click click of the empty pistol echoing in the room. You’d hate to admit it, but something about the cold tip pressing against you sent tingles—no, not just tingles, a deep, shivering thrill—through you. Your breath hitched as you stared at your reflection, entranced by the sight. His hand gripped your hip firmly, grounding you as the gun pressed against the side of your head. “This feels good?” he murmured, his eyes locked onto yours in the mirror. You found yourself nodding, almost mesmerized by the dangerous intimacy of the moment.

“Good”

[delicateflowerss]

Dark Paradise

You try to adjust to a new life, married and living in a manor. But you quickly realize that not everything is what it seems, including your mysterious and devilishly handsome husband, Michael Langdon.

Warnings: 18+, DUB-CON, violence, murder, demon!Michael, blood kink, pain kink, breeding kink, dacryphilia

Word Count: 4.2k

You’re not sure if you’ll ever get used to the dark corridors where shadows dance in your periphery, or the damp smell that makes you feel like you’re underground. It smells of rotting fruit, a slow and lingering decay, almost like death surrounds you.

As long as it doesn’t reach you.

You’re also not sure if you’ll ever get used to the man that haunts these grounds. This tall, dark manor that sits in the middle of nowhere.

He’s not dead, he’s just your husband.

His appearances to you are scarce, only really seeing him at mealtimes and occasionally passing him in hallways.

He’s elusive, mysterious to you in ways you cannot comprehend. Ever since you arrived at the manor, all you’ve had are questions.

For an unknown reason, you can’t remember your life before this place. All you know is you were married off to a man named Michael Langdon.

Sometimes, you have the strangest dreams with a house that feels like the complete opposite of here. One filled with love and light and white walls, and not this frigidness that wraps around you now.

The days almost feel like they go on forever, blending together as nothing surprising happens.

Until one night, you’re pulled out of a peaceful slumber by a piercing scream.

It takes you a moment to blink away the sleep, wondering if it was real or part of a dream.

It doesn’t take long before another one echoes throughout the manor. It’s shrill, a seemingly female scream.

You clutch the soft sheets under you, your heartbeat loud in your ears.

You think about whether you should lie back down, ignoring it and going back to sleep. But you don’t think you could even if you wanted to.

Perhaps against your better judgement, you leave your bedroom, with only a candle lighting your path through the dark hallways.

Your white nightgown sways as you step between walls covered in paintings. The dim candlelight casts shadows on the faces, giving them a particularly ghoulish look.

You keep walking, hoping to find some sort of sign of what it is that woke you up. You’re not even sure where the scream exactly came from.

Before you can reach Michael’s room, a chill sweeps past you, extinguishing your candle, leaving you shivering in the dark.

A disembodied voice calls out your name in the form of a question.

“What are you doing out of your room?” he asks.

You instantly recognize the voice, and it stops you in your tracks. You swallow as he steps closer to you. Michael is holding a candle, illuminating the glare on his face.

“I thought I heard something. It woke me up,” you say nervously.

“I didn’t hear anything,” he replies, his brow furrowing.

“It sounded like a scream. I thought someone might have gotten hurt.”

“Are you sure you didn’t just have a nightmare?” he asks in an almost mocking manner, a cruel smirk growing on his lips.

“No-.” You sigh, stopping yourself. “No,” you say again, this time quieter.

“Come on. I’ll tuck you in and look under your bed for monsters,” he says, trying to step past you with a teasing grin on his face.

“I know what I heard, Michael.”

He stops, mere inches from your face and he can see the seriousness that settles in your eyes.

It doesn’t stop his own icy blue eyes from growing colder.

His gaze rakes over you before he leans in closer, warm breath fanning over your lips as he says, “you didn’t hear anything, Y/N. Time to go back to bed.”

You think your own breathing has stopped before he leaves you, going back to his bedroom.

That’s when your goosebumps return, Michael taking all warmth with him.

You’ve sat in the library all day, reading by the window as rain hits the glass. You decided that you’ll read every book in this place since you don’t have much else to do. You’re on 28 out of 11,200. Thunder rumbles above you as you turn the page.

Nothing has happened since you heard the scream, helping you to believe that it was either a dream or your sleep-addled imagination. You tried asking your handmaid if she heard anything that night, but she said no, giving you a strange look like you might be going mad.

You quickly shut up about it.

Michael hasn’t brought it up, which you’re somewhat grateful for because if he did, it would probably be to make fun of you some more.

Even if he has been polite enough about it, it’s been difficult to be around him. He’s always had an intense gaze but something about it has changed. It lingers for too long.

You think that’s always been the case. But now you react differently, a heat growing in your cheeks and a fire igniting in the pit of your stomach.

“Are you hiding from me for a reason?”

You practically jump, startled by the deep voice near your ear.

You close your book and look over your shoulder, finding Michael standing behind you. Amusement lights up his face and his hands are clasped together behind him.

“Do you normally spend your time in here?” he asks, eyes scanning the room, finding books from floor to ceiling and a fire raging, keeping you warm.

“Sometimes.”

You stare at him, still confused as to why he’s bothering you. Shouldn’t he be busy with something?

“So why do you seem to be in here more than you used to be?”

He steps over to the chair you’re sitting in, wood creaking underneath him. He looks over your shoulder, reading the title of your leatherbound book.

You swallow, able to smell the rich scent he wears. It’s musky with a dash of sweetness, like a piece of fruit being harvested from the earth.

“Just reading more, I guess,” you finally answer his question.

“Hm, well I wanted to apologize for the other night.” He pauses, like it’s hard to get the words out. “You were obviously shaken, and I could’ve been nicer.”

Even if his apology could be more genuine, at least it’s an apology.

“I also want to give you something,” he says before placing something on a side table near you.

You pull your brows together as you take in the gift.

“A pomegranate?” you ask, moving your gaze to him, eyebrows raised.

He picks the piece of fruit back up, mischief dancing in his eyes. In one motion, he cracks the rouge skin open, revealing hundreds of little seeds.

He gathers exactly four seeds in the palm of his hand, setting the rest of the fruit back down.

Without saying anything, he brings his hand closer to you, offering it as if you have no choice but to accept.

You hesitate for a moment before reaching to grab them from the palm of his large hand.

But when your skin brushes against his, a gasp falls from your lips, an image flashing in front of you.

It’s Michael, but he looks different…wearing different clothes than he wears now, almost like a school uniform.

The pomegranate seeds fall to the floor before you look up at him.

There’s a question in his eyes that almost matches yours. But it’s just a flicker of confusion before it disappears, turning into irritation.

He clasps his hands together again before leaning down to you and saying lowly, “if you make a mess, you must clean it up. Remember that.”

You keep your eyes away from him, not able to look at him. You can faintly hear him walk away, but your mind is too focused on the words that seem to have another meaning to them. A meaning that makes heat swirl inside you.

The sun is out today, but just barely. It peeks slightly behind gray clouds. You’ll take it over nothing, deciding it called for a stroll in the garden.

Except, as you look around, you realize there isn’t much of a garden. The flowers seem to be withering away, drooping without life and leaves almost crumbling to dust.

It must be the lack of sunshine, you think as you frown.

It’s so hard to find beauty in a place like this, instead only finding death and tragedy.

Without intending to, your mind wanders to a certain someone. You suppose not all beauty is lost.

You still have been avoiding Michael to the best of your abilities, still unsure what happened that day in the library.

You’re also unsure of your growing feelings for him. He is your husband, but it’s also true you two never consummated the marriage.

He never wanted to, and at first, you were grateful. But now, as you think of his golden curls and sharp jawline that could have been crafted by the gods themselves, you wonder if it would help ease the tension between you. Maybe it’s what you need to do in order to have a normal conversation with him.

But nothing about him is normal. He might be beautiful, but you can’t ignore the darkness that lies in his eyes and makes up his entire being.

You stop, finding a faded yellow flower sprouting from the ground. You bend down, pulling it up. Standing up, you stare at it in your hand, and you can’t help but wish it was alive.

You sigh, eyes closing, almost in defeat. But when you open them, you can’t believe what you see.

The flower is now a bright yellow, looking like it belongs in a vase full of fresh-cut daffodils.

It’s like the flower was resuscitated right between your fingers, finally getting the oxygen it so desperately needed.

There is no way you did this, so how is this possible?

Dinner is mostly eaten in silence. Some small talk is exchanged but you can tell Michael can barely bare it, gritting his teeth as you ask him how his day was.

Michael enjoys more intellectually stimulating conversation. It just so happens that usually means arguing with you or teasing you about something. So, you’re not very fond of it.

Once the plates are taken away, you think you can finally breathe, ready to take your leave to your room.

Just as you’re getting up, Michael stops you.

“Sit down. You haven’t had your dessert yet.”

“Dessert? We only have that on special occasions,” you retort, sitting back down.

“Well, you didn’t get to finish it the other day.”

You part your lips to question him again, but it’s answered when a maid places a plate in front of you.

A pomegranate split in half sits before you.

Michael seems to be waiting for your reaction when you lock eyes with him.

“What is with you and pomegranates?”

“They’re in season. I just want you try it.”

He leans back in his chair, giving a smile that doesn’t exactly reach his eyes. Instead, you find a glint there instead.

You nervously look down at the fruit, mulling over what he wants you to do.

You blink and you suddenly see that the red fruit has turned into a human heart, bloody and still beating.

You gasp, eyes widening as you push back your chair.

You look back to Michael, wondering if he sees it too. You’re met with a cold stare, his finger impatiently tapping on the table.

You frown, your eyes going back to the plate only to find the pomegranate.

Tears spring to your eyes as you consider the real fact that you’re losing your mind.

You don’t notice Michael getting up to stand next to you, your broken mind too caught up with all the peculiar things happening in the last couple of weeks.

He gently puts his hand on your shoulder, taking you out of the torment you’re putting yourself through.

By the time you turn to look at him, he has a few pomegranate seeds on his fingertips. You can smell the sweetness as he brings them closer to your lips.

“Don’t think about it. Just eat them,” he says as two of his fingers move past your lips and into your mouth.

You hum lowly in your throat as you taste how delicious they are, lips clasping tighter around Michael’s fingers, your tongue swirling around them.

He breaks the seal, removing his fingers before you swallow. He watches your throat move up and down, taking his offering.

You don’t miss the satisfied smirk on his plump lips.

It’s a night of tossing and turning. You’re able to sleep but it’s restless. Thoughts of Michael still lingering hours after he fed you the pomegranate.

When you’re finally able to sleep for more than an hour, you’re woken up by a scream similar to the one that woke you up weeks ago.

You know you heard it. It’s not in your imagination. No matter what Michael wants you to believe.

You don’t even think about it as you leave your bed, practically storming down the hall, deciding to leave behind a lit candle for light.

You pass Michael’s bedroom, getting closer to the faint sounds of cries and screams.

At the end of the hallway lies a singular door painted blood red.

You’ve never dared to go through it because when you arrived at the manor, you were told it is off limits.

Every time you would look at it, the hairs on your neck would stand up, giving you reason enough to never investigate it.

But now, you know you have to, tired of not knowing the truth.

When you step through the doorway, the air feels heavy, like all the light has been sucked out, only leaving a darkness that sits on your chest, making sure you cannot take a breath.

It’s pitch black, stairs going down to seemingly nowhere or possibly the pits of Hell. So, it’s either idiotic or suicidal why you decide to go down them.

Once you go down the stairs, a sweltering heat is the first thing you feel, like fire blistering your skin. It’s so bright down at the bottom of the stairs that it reflects in the irises of your eyes.

Hundreds of candles are lit with a few fires alongside them. The walls seem to be made of the earth, like a cave.

You don’t exactly understand what is going on, crouched at the bottom of the stairs spotting Michael walking toward a man sitting on the ground.

Cries and screams of “no” fall from the man as Michael brings a small knife to the man’s throat.

He slices it open, like a bleeding smile, his cries ceasing.

A sadistic smirk paints Michael’s lips, a satisfied one that is so similar to the one he had when he fed you the pomegranate seeds.

That’s when you notice everyone else. Bodies littered around the room, both alive and dead. Blood seeping from their various wounds. The ones who are alive seem to be chained to the floor or the walls, like they’re being tortured.

You can’t help the strangled cry that leaves your mouth, your stomach churning, thinking of the horror that the man you’re married to has been enacting.

You catch yourself, slapping a hand over your mouth. But it’s too late. He heard you.

Michael meets your gaze, and it only takes you a split second to get up and run back up the stairs.

You rush through the house, finding the front doors that keep you trapped inside this prison from the rest of the world.

You fling them open, running barefoot past the garden into the trees that border the manor.

Except just when you think you’re getting somewhere, you’re entering another door, one that goes right back inside the manor.

You look around with bewilderment, your mind racing to try and figure out what is going on. But you just end up hitting a brick wall, wanting to collapse into tears while nothing makes sense. You feel like the floor is moving, like your world has been tilted.

“Don’t cry, little witch.”

You turn to find Michael at the top of the main staircase, looking at you with a sort of curiosity and feigned sympathy.

“What?” you ask, voice cracking.

He continues down the stairs, stepping closer to you.

“Stay away from me,” you yell, voice still thick with tears. “I’m getting out of here.”

“You can try as long as you want to get away. But you’ll always end up back here.”

His looming figure is blurry as you blink away the tears.

You let him get closer, his thumb wiping your tear-stained cheeks.

“You poor thing.” You hear him mutter like you’re some naïve little lamb that needs to be protected.

“You’re stuck here,” he explains. “Those seeds you ate bound you here forever. With me, little witch,” he adds with a grumbling chuckle.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“You don’t remember,” he observes, tilting his head at you, like you’re his science experiment.

He thinks for a moment before continuing, “I suppose it would be better if you remembered. Then we really can have fun.”

Before you can protest or say anything, everything goes black.

Certain details are still fuzzy when you regain consciousness, but you remember it all.

You were a powerful witch in a coven. You remember your sisters and your Supreme, Cordelia.

You also remember him.

Cordelia made a deal. She knew who Michael really was, so she did anything she could to send him away, lock him up within the gates of Hell.

She had to make a sacrifice, and it just so happened to be you.

She came up with a loophole for you. The problem is that you couldn’t remember what it was when you arrived here.

You look around at your surroundings for the first time, finding yourself inside a circle of lit candles.

You try to move outside of the confines of the circle, but it’s like an invisible barrier is up.

You lie back down in defeat.

There is no fighting him or getting out. You ate the seeds of the pomegranate.

If enough time had passed without you eating them, you could’ve gotten away from here like Cordelia wanted.

Now you’ve sealed your fate. You’ve been promised to The Beast.

It’s not long before a door creaks open. The man you’ll be forced to spend eternity with, walks through the door.

“I imagine that was an enlightening nap,” he says, fighting off a mocking grin.

You swallow, keeping your eyes anywhere but on him.

“I was right that it would be better if you remember. I can feel the hatred coming off you. I like that more than indifference.”

He pauses, his eyes raking over your body, like he’s hungry and you’re his next meal.

“Of course, other feelings haven’t changed. You know, it was so hard not to say anything that day in the library when I could smell how wet you were.”

You finally turn to look at him, eyes widening at his casual vulgarity.

“Or any of the other times you were clenching your thighs together. And all because of me,” he adds, eyes full of mirth.

“You’re lying,” you argue, but you can’t deny how warm your cheeks are getting.

“Am I?” he challenges. “It really wouldn’t matter. You’re mine to do as I please with.”

You try to hide the waves of heat you feel, but you can’t successfully hide anything from him.

“What would your Supreme think if she knew how easily you gave into me? If she knew how much of a whore, you are?”

He walks around you in circles like you’re prey that he’s just playing with until he’s ready to feast.

It’s dizzying.

“Maybe I couldn’t stop Cordelia from trapping me here, but I knew I wasn’t going to let you go. Her silly plan with the pomegranates,” he laughs. “I was going to pull you down to the depths of Hell with me. Which is where you’ll be for the rest of eternity.”

You shake your head, wanting him to stop taunting you.

“You’re a monster, Michael,” you harshly say. “I’m sure you feel more at home here.”

He just gives you a humorless laugh, something cruel settling in his eyes.

“Cordelia doesn’t care about you. Her hatred for me outweighed whatever love she had for you. She’s probably forgotten all about you.”

You try to pretend that his words don’t claw at your chest.

“But if I’m going to have my little witch by my side,” he continues. “She can’t be an insolent one.”

You instantly regret hurling any insults at him.

“I think it’s time you learn how things are going to work around here.”

He steps inside the circle, barely giving you time to move out of his way.

“On your knees. Now,” he says, his voice sounding gravelly.

You scramble to kneel at his second command.

“Tell me, little witch. Who’s your God?”

You look up at him, confusion in your eyes.

“What?”

The palm of his hand meets your cheek, moving your head to the side. A slight sting burns your skin.

“Let’s try that again. Who is your God?”

You just shake your head, trying not to let the tears fall from your eyes.

His palm slaps your other cheek, the same biting feeling spreading through your face.

“We can keep doing this until you get it right.”

At least when Michael walked the earth, he had many people to subject his torture too. Now, he just has you. And any other sorry soul that might cross his path, you think. The image of crimson pouring from that man’s neck is still burned into your mind.

“You, Michael. You’re my God,” you defeatedly say.

“And how should you worship your God?”

You catch his gaze, unsure how to answer.

All he does is move his hand to undo his pants, unzipping them until you get what he means.

Your eyelashes flutter as you move your face closer to his cock.

He’s already hard, so you give a small lick to his tip, tasting the salty evidence of his arousal.

He watches you start to put his cock into your mouth and down your throat.

A groan falls from his lips as you begin to fuck him with your throat, spit spilling out of your mouth as you choke on his size.

He puts a hand to the back of your head, helping you to take almost all of him. You can feel your own arousal coating your inner thighs.

“I knew you were good for something,” he says as you gag a little.

He surprises you by pulling you off him, letting you fall onto your ass while your drool hits your chin.

He’s quick to grab you, pinning you to the floor as he puts his weight on top of you.

“I want you to feel me cum inside you.”

He doesn’t waste any time before he rips your white nightgown off you, seeing your naked body for the first time.

His own clothes come off and you hate that even if you know how much of a monster he is, all you can think about is him fucking you.

His hands have your wrists underneath them, pushed into the cold hard floor. You can’t move if you wanted to, but you don’t think you would anyway.

All you do is blink, and his face has changed. His skin is paler with cracks running through it, almost like cement. And his eyes have gone black, no light or emotion to be seen, just darkness, an overwhelming evil you’ve never seen or felt before.

It frightens you. His body is colder as he pushes inside you, a growl coming from deep in his throat.

He doesn’t care to wait for you to adjust, he’s rough in his thrusts, setting a pace that already leaves you gasping for air.

“Michael,” you cry out. “It hurts.”

You know you sound pathetic which is almost worse than how full you feel, your cunt stretching to accommodate the size of him.

“Good,” is all he says.

He licks and bites at your breasts, playing with your nipples between his fingers. It’s both pain and pleasure and it drives you insane. You can feel him deep inside you, the tip of his cock hitting that soft spot nestled in you.

You wrap your legs around him, your walls clenching around him.

He kisses your cheeks, wet with tears from the pain you have felt. He just licks it up, finding your pain to be delicious.

His lips drag against your throat, teeth nipping at the delicate skin.

He whispers, “I can’t wait to see you swollen with my baby. Evidence of how you belong to me.”

You can feel your pussy squeeze him at the thought, the coil in your stomach getting tighter and tighter.

He captures your lips in a sloppy kiss as he moves his hand down to rub your aching bundle of nerves.

It’s enough for the coil to snap. It’s only moments later when you feel him twitch inside you, coating your walls with his cum. He bites down on your shoulder, and you cry out in pain as he laps up the blood that seeps from the wound, soothing it with his tongue.

He’s breathless as he collapses on top of you, his skin going back to its usual color.

Your mind isn’t clouded with pleasure anymore, but you bring a hand to the curls on his head anyway.

He moves his head slightly to look at you, a smirk forming on his lips.

“If only Cordelia could see you now.”

[slut4evanpeters]

Bound By The Dark

Tate Langdon x Reader loosely based on Romeo and Juliet.

song i recommend listening to: living legend by lana del rey

warning: very angst, suicide, using medication to commit, romanticizing of death, tragic ending, themes of isolation, depression, emotional distress, do not read if ANY of these are triggers.

word count: 2.7k

notes: please read this with caution. if you are struggling with suicidal thoughts, please know that you are loved and supported. its never to late for help:)

The house had a history.

You learned that almost immediately after stepping foot inside the large, looming structure. It towered over the street, its cracked façade barely hidden behind sprawling vines and overgrown bushes. The real estate agent had brushed off any concerns you or your parents had, but there was a feeling. A thick, suffocating tension. That settled over the place, clinging to your skin like humidity. It smelled old, like mildew and stale air, and as soon as you crossed the threshold, you knew you didn’t want to be there.

But your family didn’t care about how it felt. They cared that the house was cheap, and that it was far larger than any other home you’d ever lived in. Your father said it was a “fresh start” for all of you. A new life in a new city. It was the kind of lie that parents told when they didn’t want to admit that things had been falling apart for a long time, and now this move was their last-ditch attempt to piece things back together.

But no matter how much you tried to embrace that optimism, you couldn’t shake the chill that seeped into your bones as you walked the long, winding halls of the house. Something was off, like the house was waiting for something, or maybe for someone.

The first few days were relatively uneventful. Boxes were unpacked, rooms were organized, and your parents seemed to settle in without much concern. Your room was large, with a window that looked out onto the overgrown backyard, where a twisted oak tree stood tall and crooked, like it had been there longer than the house itself.

But even in the bright light of the afternoon, the house felt wrong. Its walls creaked and groaned in the night as if it had a voice of its own. Sometimes, when you were alone, you could swear you heard footsteps echoing down the hallways, but when you looked, no one was there. The isolation was suffocating, and though you had tried to distract yourself with new schoolwork and social media, nothing could fill the growing void inside you.

It was late one evening when you first met him.

The rain had been pounding against your window, relentless and unyielding, when you decided to venture down to the basement. Your parents had explicitly warned you to stay away from it, but something about the basement called to you. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was fate.

The stairs groaned under your weight as you descended, the air growing colder with each step. The basement was dimly lit, the shadows casting strange shapes along the walls, and yet it felt strangely familiar. Like you had been there before, though you knew you hadn’t.

And then you saw him.

He was leaning against one of the brick walls, his blond curls falling into his eyes, his arms crossed over his chest. His clothes were simple, almost dated—a worn sweater and jeans that looked like they belonged to a different era. But it was his eyes that held your attention—dark, hollow, and full of something you couldn’t quite place.

“Hey,” he said softly, as if he’d been expecting you. His voice was calm, almost soothing, despite the eerie atmosphere of the basement.

You froze, unsure of what to do. This was your house—wasn’t it? Who was he? How had he gotten in?

“Who are you?” you asked, your voice steady but your heart racing in your chest.

He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Tate.”

“And what are you doing in my house?” you demanded, trying to sound braver than you felt.

Tate shrugged, pushing himself off the wall and stepping closer to you. “I live here.”

His words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. He lived here? That couldn’t be true—you and your family had just moved in. The house had been empty for years. Or at least, that’s what the real estate agent had said.

“No, you don’t,” you said, frowning. “We just moved in. No one’s lived here for years.”

Tate’s smile widened, though there was something almost sad about it. “Not in the way you think.”

There was something about the way he said it—so matter-of-fact, so final—that sent a chill down your spine. You opened your mouth to ask what he meant, but before you could, the lights flickered, plunging the basement into darkness for just a second. When the light returned, Tate was gone, leaving you standing alone in the cold, silent basement.

You tried asking your parents if they knew anything about the previous owners of the house, but they shrugged it off. “No one important,” your father had said, brushing past the question as if it didn’t matter. “Some old family. The house has been empty for a while.”

But you knew that wasn’t true. Tate had been there, and somehow, you felt like he had been there for a long time.

It wasn’t long before you saw him again. It was late at night, after your parents had gone to bed. You were restless, unable to sleep, so you wandered the house, hoping to quiet your thoughts. As you passed by one of the unused rooms on the second floor, you felt a strange pull, as if something—or someone—was calling you.

You pushed the door open, and there he was, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, his knees pulled up to his chest. He looked up as you entered, his dark eyes meeting yours.

“You came back,” he said softly, as if he had been waiting for you.

“I didn’t come back for you,” you said, though even as the words left your mouth, you knew they weren’t entirely true.

Tate smiled that sad, knowing smile again. “You don’t have to lie. Not to me.”

You hesitated, unsure of how to respond. There was something about him—something that drew you in, even though every instinct in your body told you to stay away. He was dangerous, you could feel it in your bones, but you couldn’t help yourself. You wanted to know him. You needed to understand him.

“Why are you here?” you asked, stepping further into the room.

Tate sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. “Because I can’t leave.”

“What do you mean?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if the weight of the answer was too much to bear. “I’m tied to this house. I’ve been here for a long time. Longer than you could imagine.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine. “Are you… are you dead?”

Tate’s eyes opened slowly, and when they met yours, they were filled with a sorrow so deep it took your breath away. “Yes.”

You weren’t sure how to process the fact that Tate was a ghost.

You wanted to deny it, to rationalize it, but the more you spoke with him, the more real it became. Tate had died a long time ago, but his spirit remained in the house, bound by some invisible force that kept him there.

At first, you were scared. You avoided the rooms where you had seen him, trying to convince yourself that it wasn’t real—that he wasn’t real. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were meant to know him. There was something about him, something tragic and beautiful, that pulled you in.

And so, slowly, you began to seek him out.

It became a routine: you’d wander the house late at night, knowing you’d find him waiting for you somewhere. Sometimes in the basement, sometimes in that forgotten room on the second floor. You’d talk for hours, sharing stories of your life, your dreams, your fears. And Tate, in return, told you about his.

He had been lonely for so long, trapped in the house with no one to talk to, no one to understand him. But with you, he felt alive again, even if just for a fleeting moment.

One night, as you sat together in the attic, Tate reached out and brushed his fingers against your cheek. His touch was cold, but it sent a warmth spreading through your chest, igniting something deep inside you.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered, his voice trembling with something you couldn’t quite place. “This house… it’s not safe.”

“I don’t care,” you said, your heart pounding in your chest. “I want to be with you.”

Tate’s eyes darkened, filled with a mix of desire and fear. “You don’t understand, Y/N. I’m dangerous. I’ve done things… horrible things.”

“I don’t care,” you repeated, your voice firm. “I love you.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and electric. Tate stared at you, his expression filled with shock and disbelief. “You… you love me?”

You nodded, your throat tight with emotion. “Yes, Tate. I do.”

For a moment, Tate didn’t say anything. Then, slowly, he leaned in and kissed you. His lips were cool against yours, but the kiss was filled with an intensity that took your breath away. It was desperate, almost frantic, as if he was afraid that if he let go, you’d disappear.

But you didn’t pull away. You kissed him back, pouring every ounce of your heart into that single, stolen moment.

When you finally broke apart, Tate rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “I love you too,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “But we can’t… we can’t be together. Not like this.”

Despite Tate’s warnings, you couldn’t stay away from him.

Every night, you found yourself returning to him, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. And each night, your connection deepened. You could feel it—the way the house seemed to pulse with a dark energy, as if it knew you were falling in love with a ghost and was waiting for the inevitable fallout.

Your parents noticed the change in you, though they didn’t understand it. You spent less time with them, more time wandering the halls of the house, lost in your thoughts. They tried to talk to you about it, but you brushed them off, too consumed by your love for Tate to care about anything else.

“You’ve been acting strange,” your mother said one morning over breakfast, her brow furrowed with concern. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” you lied, though your heart felt heavy in your chest. How could you tell her the truth? How could you explain that you had fallen in love with someone who was dead?

But deep down, you knew it couldn’t last.

The house was getting to you. You could feel it in the way the walls seemed to close in on you, the way the air felt thicker, heavier. The longer you stayed, the more you realized that Tate had been right—it wasn’t safe. Not for you, not for anyone.

And yet, you couldn’t leave him. You loved him too much.

It was late one night when everything came crashing down.

You had been in the attic with Tate, your head resting on his shoulder as the two of you lay side by side. The house was quiet, the only sound the soft patter of rain against the roof.

“You know this can’t last, right?” Tate said suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You stiffened, pulling away to look at him. “What do you mean?”

Tate’s eyes were filled with sadness as he reached out to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re alive, Y/N. You have a life outside of this house. Outside of me.”

“I don’t want a life without you,” you said, your voice trembling. “I can’t leave you, Tate.”

“But you have to,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You deserve to live. To be happy.”

Tears filled your eyes as you shook your head. “I don’t want to be happy without you.”

Tate closed his eyes, his expression pained. “I love you, Y/N. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. But this�� it’s not fair to you.”

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed through the attic, followed by the creak of the door opening. You turned to see your father standing in the doorway, his face pale with shock.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice shaking. “Who are you talking to?”

Your heart dropped into your stomach as you realized that your father couldn’t see Tate. To him, you were sitting alone, talking to thin air.

“Dad, I can explain—” you started, but your father cut you off.

“We’re leaving,” he said, his voice firm. “This house… it’s doing something to you. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“No!” you cried, standing up and taking a step toward him. “I’m not leaving! I can’t!”

But your father didn’t listen. He turned and walked away, leaving you standing in the attic with tears streaming down your face.

Deep down, knew that without Tate, you’d be better off in the gutter. His presence was the only thing tethering you to the mess that had become your life, but it wasn’t enough to pull you out. That night, everything seemed so much clearer.

You made the decision.

Racing from the attic into your bedroom, your heart pounded in your chest. It wasn’t panic, but a strange kind of calm, like you had finally figured out the answer to a question that had haunted you for your time loving Tate. You went straight to the nightstand, hands trembling as you yanked open the top drawer. Buried in the back, behind half-empty tubes of lip balm and loose change, was the small box of paracetamol. You had kept it there in case of a fever, but that wasn’t why you reached for it now.

Sitting on your bed, the stillness of the room pressed in around you. One by one, you popped each pill from its foiled tray, their edges cutting slightly into your fingertips. You placed each one on your tongue, swallowing them dry, your throat burning as the bitter taste clung to the back of your mouth.

Once the last pill was gone, you sank back against the pillows, feeling the cool fabric cradling your head. A faint tune drifted through the air, a song you couldn’t quite place but one that felt familiar, almost comforting. Your vision started to blur, your head spinning gently, and your eyelids grew heavy. For a fleeting moment, you thought you felt Tate’s presence, like a shadow hovering beside you, but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t try to stop you.

The world slipped away.

When you opened your eyes, everything had changed. You crawled out of bed, your limbs feeling light and weightless, but when you turned to look, your breath caught in your throat. There you were, your body, lying perfectly still on the bed. Peaceful. Almost as if you had simply fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.

For a moment, you stood frozen, staring at yourself, trying to make sense of what had just happened. There was no pain, no fear. Just a strange sense of detachment, like watching a scene play out in a movie.

Then, from over your shoulder, you heard it. A whisper.

“I told you death was painless.” Tate’s voice, low and familiar, curled around you like smoke. You turned to find him standing there, the ghost of a smirk on his lips, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite read. “You didn’t need saving, after all.”

You looked back at your body one last time, then turned to face him fully. Maybe he was right—maybe you didn’t need saving. But the decision had already been made, and now there was no going back.

Hand in hand with Tate, you walked into the darkness together, the world you had known fading away behind you.

In the end, your love story was not one of happiness or hope. It was a tragedy, a tale of two souls bound by love.

Tate was your Romeo, and you his Juliet.

[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! :)

[heavenlytouches]

since it's cold here I got myself the famous "Tate Langdon" sweater and I decided to ask for female reader x Tate. Like, when he's alive and you're hanging out but it's cold so he gives you his sweater pls

Hello dear!! Awww I love this so muchh! And also, I have the same sweater, we're matchy now ^^. Let's get writing (also I wanna say, I'm so so proud of this banner, I'm getting good at designs TwT) El <3

Tate Langdon- lovely threads

*ੈ𑁍༘⋆

FEM reader

<3 (SFW)

TW!- none

Cozy but chilly spring night with Tate

Tate is alive in this one <3

Tate Langdon

The chilly spring night wrapped around you like a soft reminder of the world beyond your thoughts. As you laid on the grass outside the infamous murder house, you could feel the cool earth beneath you, the cold air prickling your skin.

It felt peaceful, though — surreal in a way that made every moment seem like an echo of a distant memory.

You hazily gazed up at the stars, wondering how many others had watched them shimmer over this haunted terrain. But it wasn't the sky that captivated your thoughts; it was the presence beside you, one that turned a spooky night into something warm and thrilling.

Tate Langdon glanced sideways at you, a smirk teasing at the corners of his mouth, eyebrows raised like he was in on a fantastic secret.

"Isn't it just beautiful?"

You finally turned to him.

He didn’t even pretend to look at the sky. Instead, he lifted a cigarette to his lips and took a slow drag. His eyes glimmered with amusement.

“Not as beautiful as you are."

He said, exhaling a cloud of smoke that vanished into the night. A rogue breeze caught your hair and ruffled it, and you rolled your eyes, hiding your smile behind your hands.

Tate had a way of disarming you, of making reality feel less like a tangible burden. You could see he had that effect on others—his charm like smoke, intoxicating and invisible, leaving a lingering warmth. But you knew him; you understood that beneath that staggeringly flirty demeanor lay a heart shadowed with darkness.

“Flirt all you want. It’s still freezing out here."

You replied, shivering ever so slightly.

He chuckled, an intoxicating sound that made your heart race.

“You need a sweater?”

Before you could respond, he undid the loose strings of his black and green striped sweater and pulled it over your head, pulling you closer to ensure it fit snugly around your form.

“There. You look better in it than I do, anyway.”

It was slightly oversized, wrapping you in Tate's scent—a heady mix of cigarettes and something distinctly him. It made you feel warm in more ways than one, and you bit your lip, trying to suppress the grin that threatened to spill over.

“God, I must look ridiculous.”

“Not even a little. It’s kind of cute.”

He winked, moving to lay back on the grass again, arms folded behind his head.

“You got that whole ‘lost wandering girl’ vibe going on, and I dig it.”

“Lost girl?”

You propped yourself up on an elbow instead, shaking your head in disbelief.

“You’re the one who’s lost, Tate. Half the time, you don’t even know what you want.”

His gaze shifted to you, curiosity shimmering in his brown eyes.

“Maybe I know exactly what I want, and it’s just sketchy around the edges.”

He took another drag, his focus unwavering as he studied you under the dim starlight.

“You’re not like the others. It’s like you can see through the bullshit.”

Your heart stuttered at his unexpectedly earnest admission.

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“It is.”

He turned onto his side, propping his head into his palm, and the intensity of his gaze almost made you forget about the haunted house behind him.

“You care. You’re real. Plus, it makes you cute when you blush like that.”

You felt heat creep across your cheeks, and you attempted to deflect his attention with a laugh.

“You just like corrupting innocent girls, Tate.”

“Who said you were innocent?”

He feigned innocence itself, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Maybe I'm just a sucker for messy girls who light up in dim places.”

You raised your eyebrows.

“That sounds ominous.”

“Guess it depends on the situation.”

He shifted closer, his hand brushing against yours, and the touch sent jolts spiraling through your entire being.

“Honestly? I just like being around you. Everybody else? They don’t get it.”

In that moment, the world faded, the murder house, the chilly air—it all dissipated, leaving just the electric connection crackling between you. Your breath caught in your throat.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re here, and it feels normal. For once, everything doesn’t seem so...”

He paused, searching for the right word,

“dangerous.”

His sudden vulnerability caught you off guard, and you weren't sure how to respond. You didn’t want to ruin the moment by recalling the very real darkness that surrounded him, that tried to seep into you every time you were together. Instead, you felt the urge to lean in closer, to let the suffocating anxiety drown in the warmth between you.

“Are you always like this?”

You asked, your voice almost a whisper, as if raising it would break the magic of the moment.

“Only with you.”

The honesty in his expression glimmered like the stars above. With a boldness that surprised you, you leaned in, close enough to see the way the moonlight danced in his eyes.

“I think you’re pretty damn perfect.”

“Perfectly messed up.”

He corrected, his expression playful but laced with truth.

Your laughter was light but came from a place of understanding—a recognition that neither of you was perfect, but still found something extraordinary in your connection.

“So, if we’re both messed up, where does that leave us?”

“Right here..”

He said, the distance between you nonexistent now. He brushed his thumb over your knuckles, leaving a soft trail of warmth you wished would last forever.

“Together in our own little world. What could be more perfect than that?”

You didn’t look back at the house, didn’t dwell on what horrors lived within it or what doom awaited beyond this fleeting moment. You focused on Tate, the way he effortlessly flipped the ordinary into the extraordinary. The chill of the night faded, leaving only the warmth of stolen glances, the gentle touch of friendships steeped in something deeper—something hopeful.

“Maybe this is exactly where we need to be."

You whispered, allowing your heart to speak in a way that your mind never could.

He leaned in, and as the world transformed around you, you surrendered to the feeling of promise hanging in the air—an intoxicating truth sealed with just an electric spark beneath the stars.

This was great for upcomming spooky season! I can write anything for any character babes and don’t forget- requests are always open and welcome <33

I love you guys so much

El <3

(all images were made by: El via canva & paint)

[eldritchlibertine]

Michael Langdon x Nameless FMC Words: 5,462

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

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

Maybe it was the silence. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She faltered. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The weight of his gaze felt tangible. 

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

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

Chaos has won. 

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she did.

[worldswithoutendings]

Eye for an eye [Michael Langdon] PT.1

Hello everyone! guess who is back after a very very long time, I'm rewatching AHS and can't help but fall in love with the antichrist. so enjoy! This might be a series, I want to test it out first.

Pairing: Michael Langdon x Female reader

Warning: none

Summary: 15-year-old you made a sort of deal with the devil, for a love life. pathetic. you know. but he comes with a different approach to what you actually want. but will it work?

You still regret the day you made the decision, the worst decision in your life so to speak of. When you made a deal with the devil. But on the other side, who can you blame? When you’re 15 years old, desperate for love, a life you wanted so badly. Due to all the influence, the neglect in your family. The yearning. You still remember his reaction to this day. Loud laughter ran through the reddened sky, ‘Sweetheart, please, don’t be so pathetic. You want to make a deal with me, for a love life?’ ‘Yes! Please’ you cried out, feeling foolish ‘Foolish, foolish little girl’ he mumbled as he sat on his throne ‘you can be so much more, you have so much potential. Yet you’re here, with me, pleading for love’

‘I’m sorry’ you whisper as you look down, hot tears flowing over your rosy cheeks ‘You’re so young’ he keeps mumbling about the great aspects of you ‘You could rule the world one day’ ‘I don’t want to do it alone’ you blurt out "oh! Now I have you talking, so you want to rule the world?” “I mean, yeah, doesn’t everyone want to rule the world at one point in their life?" his laugh echoes again ‘no one, can rule the world like you, but, I can arrange something for you. If you arrange something for me’

‘What do you want’ you blurt out ‘I want, you to be the bride, the bride to end all times, to end all days, to end eternity on this earth’ ‘What do you mean?’ you say as you try to get rid of the tears on your cheeks ‘I will give you, a husband, you have to find him first. He isn’t ready yet, I'll give you directions when the time is ri-‘ ‘NO!” you yell out

‘I want to be loved now, didn’t you hear me!? How old are you? Like two thousand years old?-‘ ‘-older my dear’ ‘Well then fix yourself some hearing aids!’ you blurt out, making Satan laugh again ‘Oh foolish girl, you’re going to give him a hell of a time’ and by that. Time stops. The sky turns back from red to gray.

You find yourself back in your bedroom, the cuts you made for your offering are gone, the dead bird has disappeared and all the candles are blown out. ‘What a joke’ you mumble to yourself as you cry yourself to sleep that night.

27th of November 2023

7:30.

Corpus ave.

Dress code: black

You can’t help but laugh, corpus ave? How fitting for a cooperative meeting. You are now 26 years of age. You did age gracefully if you have to be honest. Maybe Satan was right and was keeping you youthful for your husband.

you laugh okay quit it y/n your 15-year-old was screaming in your head about how you deserve to be loved, yet no one ever bothered to go further than a lazy one-night stand or a short conversation filled with flirtations but no invitations. You thought Satan totally saw it as a joke and to be honest, you started to see it like that too over time.

But on the other hand, you hadn’t expected an invitation to a cooperative meeting, led by Satan, or rather his Spawn. You had heard from him, Michael Langdon, ‘son’ of Tate Langdon and Vivien Harmon. You didn’t want to expect much from him so you kept your expectations low as you got ready for the night.

Stupid dress, why did I buy you in the first place?! Even though you had better dresses in your wardrobe, you also wanted to impress the people there. So you took advantage of your body, with a black body con dress, that rose up every time you walked. That means I will be sitting down for the rest of the evening ‘Miss van son!” you hear, and you look up, to see an unknown face ‘You don’t remember me? My apologies, my name is Rutherford, Jason Rutherford. We went to high school together’ ‘And you are calling me by my last name because?’ ‘Because I have to, Miss van Son’ Jason smiles. But his eyes aren’t smiling. Which says enough for you, and you give him a 20-dollar tip ‘Have a nice night Jason’ ‘Thank you, mis-Miss van Son’ Jason stutters. You sit down in the ballroom with all the people who have money. Lots of money. You feel out of place.

‘all rise’ a man screams, making everybody stand up straight ‘Michael Langdon, The antichrist.’ Michael comes through the doorway and your breath hitches oh my. He is beautiful, with deep sea blue eyes, golden hair past his shoulder, and a girl to his side. Hold up. A girl!? It’s not him you sigh why else would Satan, of all people, invite me to a cooperative meeting ‘sit down” Michael's cold voice echoes through the room ‘first of all, thank you for coming. Second of all. I want to introduce my girlfriend, soon-to-be wife, Rosalie Withers. You can not question her about anything. I will have your head on a silver platter’ He shows his white teeth at the end, and you can’t help but feel jealous, so who will it be then, the so-called love of my life.

When it’s time to socialize, you scrape your throat. Getting ready to walk to the bar for a heavy drink. Only to lock eyes with Michael. You show him your best smile and raise your empty glass at him as he opens a pathway for you to the bar. You can’t help but see him scan your body again!? No ‘Hi how are you’ or anything else? ‘Hi, how are you?’ Michael says softly ‘I’m good, thank you mister Langdon” he has to be a few years older than you.

He moves gracefully but strategically ‘You have potential’ Michael says ‘Excuse me?’ you almost choked on your saliva ‘I say you have potential’ he says a bit harder, but not harder for the room ‘Oh, thank you. I guess?’ you try to push your body through Donald Trump and Michael's body. You see how he takes a whiff of your smell and you see his eyes darken oh shit you try to pick up your pace to the bar but Michael has beaten you to it ‘a vodka soda, please’ you say to the bartender ‘Make that two, and two shots’ you hear Michael say and you furrow your brows

‘my father says I have to be polite’ ‘Well, you’re father is a shitty man’ you can’t help but blurt out. Making Michael laugh, almost the exact same way you got humiliated eleven years ago. You bite your lip on the inside and take a deep breath as you wait ‘I’m sorry, Miss Van Son, right?” ‘You can just call me y/n’ ‘you can just call me Michael’ ‘I’d rather not’ you say as the bartender puts down your drinks ‘why not?’ “well, you’re Satan offspring, I’m already... seen like a fool. Don’t want to humiliate myself that bad that I will definitely not have a-I don’t know why I’m telling you this, have a lovely night Mr Langdon’ you walk away with your drink and leave Michael with the two shots.

After you finish your drink you walk outside to feel the crisp air you’re still a foolish little girl you hear Satan roar through your mind ‘I know, thanks for the newsflash’ you say as you raise a middle finger to the ground ‘That’s where you are, right?! everyone looking down at you. Pathetic’ you mumble as you feel yourself getting irritated.

You wished you had brought a shawl or a coat but no, you thought it wouldn’t be long. Yet it’s already 2:45 ‘shit’ you mumble as you look at your phone, only to feel a coat be draped over your shoulders ‘Figured you might need it’ Michael says as he walks back to the club he followed me?! He didn’t see me flip off his dad, right? You shake your head and make your way home. Longing for your warm bed, funny enough, Michael's scent hypnotizes you in a funny way. Making you not remember going home at all. Just as you fell asleep in your bed, still wearing his coat.

[sarrsqz]

Cosmic Attachments

AHS: Murder House

Tate Langdon x Death!Reader

Mentions of Violet Harmon, Chad Warwick and Sally McKenna.

This is a combination of both Murder House and Hotel, but the large majority of it takes place in the Murder House.

In this, the reader is an ambiguous character to takes on the common Grim Reaper trope of guiding souls to the afterlife. They struggle with doing this in supernatural hotspots such as the Murder House due to the stubborn, evil and traumatized spirits that live there.

But they especially struggle with Tate Langdon, a boy who refuses to accept his hellish fate. But Death just can't seem to grapple their strange attachment with him.

Word count: 2k

If you don't want to read the Hotel section, skip to the transition symbol ┉┈◈◉◈┈┉

The hallways of the Hotel Cortez were never welcoming. At least, for you they weren't. The non-human entities, most of whom contradict your existence, weren't keen on having you roam the building. You demonstrated the truth of their circumstances. The vulnerability they hid behind violence.

But you still saw it. How could you not? It's your job, after all.

The carpeted floor felt grimy, even through your shoes. The lights down the hallway flickered. You could feel a draft echoing through the unmaintained vents, or... screams?

It's difficult to tell when they all feel the same to you. A calling – more work to be done. Eventually, that is.

You heard footsteps staggering somewhere behind you. Turning your head down the dim hallway, you saw Sally stumble out of a darkened room. Her old, crimped and frizzy hair fell around her face while cigarette smoke curled around her figure.

She stopped when she saw you. She pointed at you, cigarette latched between her two fingers. "Well, look who's decided to haunt my hallways. What do you want, Grim Reaper?"

You smiled, glancing down at the patterned floor before meeting her eyes again. "You know that's not my name, Sally." The ghost in question scoffed, throwing her shoulders back to emphasize her distaste at your correction. "And it's not haunting, it's... monitoring. Making sure the lost know they have a choice."

Sally snorted, her feet dragging as she walked further down the dimly light hallway. "A choice? Please. You really think any of us would choose this damned place if we had any real options?"

You shrugged. "Some did. Some still can, if they want. It's never too late for those who haven't thrown it away." Your voice was gentle, but firm. It was a necessary precaution when speaking to spirits, especially those like Sally.

You watched Sally take a long drag of her cigarette. She had stopped walking, planting her heeled shoes into the dirty carpet. Her narrowed eyes never left yours.

Breathing out the smoke, "You mean, if they haven't been stupid enough to turn you down already." Her arm fell back down to her side, cigarette ash falling to the floor. She paid it no mind. "But we all know how that goes–regret and begging. You get off on that, don't you?"

You shook your head. "It's not about getting off on anything, Sally. It's about respect. It's about finality. I don't relish in their pain. I mourn it."

The ghost laughed bitterly. Your words, which normally cut through the fragile facades of the deceased, barely scratched her. "Well, yeah, keep your mourning to yourself. None of us are going anywhere. We're all trapped in our own hells, and nothing you say will change that."

"Perhaps. But I'll still be here, Sally. For those who might change their minds. For those who need to know that there's a way out, even if it's only once." You spoke softly, looking away from Sally for a moment. You nodded slightly, confirming your beliefs to yourself.

You need to stay in touch with your ideals. Your morals. Your job.

You saw her eyes flicker, hints of vulnerability poking through before they hardened again. "Don't waste your time." She brought the cigarette back up to her red lips but stopped before she inhaled the drugs within. "You know, instead of bargaining with the freaks here, you should really be having that talk with your boy-toy at that house."

Your face hardened whilst hers curved with humor.

She shrugged dramatically, tilting her head in the process. "Seems like you're not so good at your job after all." Her eyes widened in mockery.

"Tate's choices are his own. I can't force him to do anything." You defended your stance, shifting your body to fully face the deranged ghost. "My job doesn't circle around force. It's about accepting your situation and moving on."

"Hm. Well, good luck with that." Her eyes narrowed more, which you didn't even think was possible. "Places like this have a way of holding on to its ghosts." Her hand, cigarette still placed between her fingers, gestured around you two to the otherwise empty hallway.

You watched her turn heel and walk down the remainder of the hallway. Your eyes remained latched onto the cheetah print of her coat before she turned out of sight.

You sighed, looking down at your feet for a moment. Shit– you should really check up on that place.

┉┈◈◉◈┈┉

You walked into the house through the back door, noticing the emptiness in the air due to the absence of the living. Ever since the death of the Harmons, the large house has sat abandoned for the most part.

You sighed, running your fingers through your hair. You haven't been here in a hot minute– too caught up at the hotel in the city.

"Oh, look who it is." You looked over your shoulder at the kitchen area, seeing Chad Warwick leaning on the counter. "Back again, oh door-to-door Jehovah's Witness? Still trying to sell us all on that afterlife plan?" You watched his nose crinkle when he spoke and how his clasped hands gripped each other with more strength.

The man's reaction to you was common. He's always been like this. Originally refusing you to stay with his boyfriend, now existing in pure ignorance ever since the relationship soured with age.

You raised your eyebrows, responding to him anyway. "Your choice, Chad. But remember, doors to the afterlife don't stay open forever."

"Hm, do they?" He tilted his head, watching you as you walked by and towards the staircase. You knew his bitterness was just a reflection of his personal problems, so like the others, you didn't let it affect you.

The stairs creaked under your shoes. Dust and broken glass littered the wooden floorboards. Graffiti decorated the walls in various bold colors as you trailed throughout the familiar building.

Your fingers traced the cracked walls. The paint crumbled and fell behind them, hitting the floor softly. The only sound was the sound your shoes made as you navigated down the hall. You finally stopped when you turned a corner, opting to lean against the wooden doorway instead of fully entering it.

Tate laid on the old mattress in the room. It still sat on Violet's old bed frame, although you don't remember who owned the mattress. It's been too long to remember trivial details like that.

The boy turned his head to face you, dirty blond hair falling over his forehead. "What's the matter, Death? Didn't get enough souls today?" His voice was laced in sarcasm, arms crossed in a defensive pose. He became detached after learning of your true purpose. Cold.

You haven't decided if you should put that against him though.

"Just thought I'd check in, Tate. How's the afterlife treating you?" You raised an eyebrow. He's rejected your proposals of moving on more times than you can count. There's no point in being professional anymore. So why do you still feel so attached?

Tate scoffed, sitting up on the bed and crossing his arms in his lap. "Oh, it's great. Violet still hates me; the house is still a hellhole."

So hostile.

"Why are you here?" He added on at the end of his short rant. You watched his blue eyes, lined with redness, narrow at you.

You shrugged, walking in the room slowly. You lingered around the walls, quickly glancing outside through the window. "Just... doing rounds. Discussing the reality of the stubbornness you ghosts seem to hold for my proposal." You said it nonchalantly, but Tate could recognize your poor attempts at manipulation. You were a truthful, blunt entity. Manipulation wasn't in your blood.

You leaned against the wall, shadows encapsulating your face as you looked at the boy. In contrast, the sun amplified his features. His expression of hatred, fear. Refusal to accept his fate. "Maybe," you started, "I'm just... attached in a way I shouldn't be."

"Attached? That's rich." He crossed his legs on the mattress, jaw ticking as his fingers traced the stained seams of the fabric. "I thought you were all business. Guide souls, move on. An eternal one-night stand attitude." He grumbled, eyes looking back at you.

You smiled. "It's not that simple, Tate."

He didn't respond. His fingers continued to trace the stitches in the fabric, trying to find a distraction to the situation he was in. An obvious detail that none of the ghosts here seemed to take into consideration when scaring the living away was the removal of any distractions or entertainment.

You looked down to where Tate – and also Violet, at some point – had stored his albums. The floor was empty now.

"You know," you heard him speak, "if I go with you, there's only one place I'm heading. Hell. Doesn't exactly sound like a vacation."

It wasn't a lie. You had been honest about that with him from the get-go. The boy was destined for Hell, and you couldn't help but silently pray that he'd just accept that.

"Tate, you've always known the consequences of your actions. But staying here, trapped in this endless cycle, isn't a permanent solution to your problem either. You remained natural, as best you could regarding the boy. Your stance was approachable, casual.

His eyes darkened. His finger stopped the movement against the mattress below him. "At least here, I know what to expect. Hell... that's a different kind of torture. I'm not exactly itching to find out what they have planned for me."

"Hm." You hummed, leaning your head against the cracked wall and staring off at the ceiling. "That's true. You don't. I don't even know."

He scoffed, annoyed by your attitude. He could feel his irritation grow the longer you intruded in his space.

"But think about it, Tate." Your nose crinkled as you turned your head to look back at him. "This house won't stand forever." You smiled. "One day it will crumble or be torn down. And where will you be? Trapped in the ruins, a ghost with no anchor. Your suffering won't end, Tate. It'll just evolve into a new kind of torment."

Tate frowned, a hint of fear flickering in his eyes as he quickly looked away from you. "Why does it matter? I'm already in Hell here. At least it's familiar."

Your voice was still soft, but sterner as you continued to fill his head with images of his fate. "Familiar doesn't mean safe. The ghosts bound to this place will scatter, their ties disconnected. Lost without something to focus their energy on. You have a chance to leave this shit hole on your own terms. Obtain a semblance of control over your fate."

"Fuck. Control, seriously? What kind of control do I have knowing what's on the other side?" His voice got louder, angrier as his head shot up to face you again.

"Hiding from what you fear will only make your existence more miserable when this place can't protect you anymore."

Your face went blank. You watched one of his eyes twitch, annoyed by the impending reality he was faced with. You stared at each other, yours a look of understanding, his of fear and boiling hatred. Suddenly, he whispered, "You really believe that, don't you?"

You nod. "I do. I need to. And I'll be here, waiting, for whenever you do too."

You stood up straight, not giving the boy another look as you left the room. Your hand trailed against the wall again, before you turned the corner.

Tate watched you leave, attempting to appear indifferent to your conversation. But he couldn't deny the emotions it stirred up inside him. He could take what the other ghosts said about him. He could push their words down until he either forgot about them or lashed out in a swell of emotions.

But you... you were different. You were an inhuman, cosmic creature crafted by the universe.

And his attachment to you wasn't going to save him. 

[charcharbinks333]

•tate langdon•

content: use of Y/N, !fem!reader, spying ig? it’s js chill ngl

y/n sat in her room, flicking through the pages of an anne sexton poetry book, aimlessly scanning the highlighted stanzas. she stopped on a marked page, her fingertips running across the tear-stained paper. 

‘i am so tired of waiting

aren't you

for the world to become good 

and beautiful and kind? 

let us take a knife

and cut the world in two

and see what worms are eating

at the rind’

so simple, yet so tear-jerking for her. she bit her lower lip softly as she read over the page over and over, bringing herself into a sort of a trance. soft music emitted from her cd player, some song by the smashing pumpkins as usual. she shifted in her bed, pushing herself off of the mattress and padding around her room for a moment, the cold wooden floor causing a hiss to escape her lips. Y/N grabbed a pair of pajama pants and threw them over the shorts she adorned. 

she pushed open her window, sticking her head out, breathing in the summer air. she closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, letting her eyelids flutter open. as she did, she noticed a boy entering the house. his blond curls fell over his eyes, shadowing his face. his striped sweater engulfed his figure, but matched the vibe of his old-looking tattered jeans. Y/N quickly shut her window and scurried to find shoes, putting them on carelessly while opening her door. she went down the stairs and nervously peered into the foyer. the boy entered and immediately went into her father’s office. great, he’s my dad’s patient. shit. Y/N straightened her posture and descended the rest of the stairs as casually as she could. she noticed the slightly cracked door, and pondered internally. ethically, it’s wrong. but… what’s really so wrong about it? she looked down at her shoes, mustering the courage to peer in. ‘send it’ the scrawled writing read on the toe. she padded slowly towards the door, being sure not to make too much noise—her house always echoed. she crouched and peeked through the crack of the door, immediately seeing the blond boy. a smile crept onto Y/N’s lips as she scooted closer, now resting on her knees. she inhaled slowly, trying to calm her racing heart as her eyes trailed up to his face. she admired his distant features for a moment—the coffee colored eyes he adorned, his perfect pink lips, his kurt cobain-esque vibe, the beauty marks on his face. her heart rate suddenly spiked as his eyes met hers. her eyebrows immediately shot up as her eyes widened and she swiftly backed away from the door.

“could i use the bathroom, Dr. Y/L/N?” the boy’s muffled voice met Y/N’s ears, and as soon as her dad answered with a ‘yes’ she scurried down the hall to stand in the kitchen, acting nonchalant. she whistled softly as she perused the kitchen, opening cabinets awkwardly. 

“y’know spying is rude,” a voice chided behind her, and she quickly whipped around to face him. he was even more handsome close up.

“i… i have no idea what you’re talking about,” she stuttered, going back to awkwardly searching the kitchen. she opened the fridge and grabbed a soda. “i’m just gonna… go back to my room…” she slowly made her way towards the stairs, before turning back to look at the boy.

“i never caught your name,” he mentioned, now walking towards the stairs and leaning against the banister. his eyes scanned Y/N’s figure for a moment, and he almost chuckled when he saw her christmas pajamas.

“Y/N.” she smiled up at him, immediately noticing their height difference. he nodded, a small smile on his face, his dimples pricking at his cheeks.

“well Y/N, i should get back, your dad might get suspicious,” he muttered before waving awkwardly and walking back into her dad’s office. Y/N leaned against the banister, her head resting on her arms. she sighed longingly, watching as he looked back before leaving the door cracked once again. you sly dog… she thought before jogging back up the stairs.

kinda short but there’s gonna be a part 2!

[7-wonders]

Interlude: Michael

Summary: Where does Michael go after he storms out on you?

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: Mad Love, from Michael's POV! Very excited about this chapter, as this is what gets us into the main action of part II. Prepare for your hearts to be broken, friends. Multiple times.

Mad Love Masterlist

Michael Langdon sits behind the wheel of a very expensive car, the brand of which he couldn’t care less about, and weaves in and out of traffic as though the laws don’t apply to him. They don’t, really; if an officer were to pull him over, it’s a simple mind trick to get out of any trouble.

He’s furious in a way that he can’t ever remember being, more furious even when the coven killed Ms. Mead. This is made even worse considering the source of his ire is you. You, whom he never expected to betray him in such a manner. And it is, of course, a betrayal.

Though you not being Satan’s perfect bride hasn’t bothered Michael for a while, he had at least assumed that you would support him in situations where he needed spousal support. After all, that’s what married couples were supposed to do, right? And Michael has always supported you with what you wanted to do. School, and social activities, and potential post-graduate moves. In his mind, it was a no-brainer that you would be behind him now as he embarked on what he was meant to do.

Yet, you looked so hurt when he told you that the plans for apocalypse were progressing as scheduled, just as hurt as he had felt when he found out you didn’t support him, in fact, and he doesn’t quite understand why. Of course, he understands certain aspects of the plan might be upsetting. Your parents' perishing will surely be a tough loss, and Michael himself will be sad about it as well. As you said, they’ve treated him with such kindness since the day that they met him. Couples are meant to share those burdens together, and Michael will be there for you while you mourn.

But for you to flat-out say that you won’t support Michael as he fulfills his destiny? It makes no sense. Just as he had gotten over believing you were anything that Satan had told him he would have, he thought that you had gotten over the very same things that had originally held you back from being in a relationship with him. After all, you had even taken the huge step of coming with him to meet with the Cooperative. You had played the part of dutiful wife, of the future queen of Michael’s kingdom, and you had played it well. What had changed, to make you so fearful of what was to come?

Michael is so wrapped up in his thoughts, in his anger and confusion and hurt, that he doesn’t realize where he’s driving to until he’s pulled up outside of the front gates of the Murder House, of all places. Though he didn’t have plans to come here, and he’s still a little unsure why his subconscious gave himself these directions, the more that he thinks about this unexpected destination, the more he realizes that it’s actually a perfect stop. 

He wants the family that spurned him to be aware of their true mortality, their final death, and be unable to do anything about it. Because when the bombs dropped, they would wipe the house off the face of the Earth, down to its very foundations. Bye bye, Murder House.

The front door swings open with a wave of his hand, welcoming him to the home he wanted so desperately to belong to when he was younger. It’s just the same as the last time he was here (with you, his brain reminds him), a sign that the ghosts’ attempts to keep living families from moving in was still working. Michael’s footsteps echo through the foyer, and he smiles. All he has to do is wait.

Waiting takes approximately 30 seconds. 

“Now, what in the hell are you doin’ here?”

Constance Langdon appears right in front of him, wearing an ugly printed dress and with her hair perfectly coiffed into a beehive. Her accessories are the same as always–a glass of whiskey and a cigarette, both perched in one hand. Oh, this day just keeps getting better and better.

“Thought I would give you a heads up,” Michael says, barely hiding his glee. “The house that you wanted for so long? The one that you killed countless people for? The one that you killed yourself for? It’ll be ashes in a couple weeks. No, it’ll be less than ashes. It’ll be fucking pulverized to nothing.”

“What are you talking about, boy?”

“The world is ending, Constance, and at my hand.”

“Bullshit,” she spits.

Michael smirks and continues. “Figured I’d see the house that everyone cared so fucking much about one last time.”

“And just how are you going to go about bringing the apocalypse?” It’s obvious that she still doesn’t believe him; ironic, considering she was the first to see his true nature.

“Nuclear weapons, of course.”

Constance’s face takes on a sickly pallor in an impressively short amount of time, and she shakes her head. “You’re a liar, Michael, and you always have been. Nasty little habit, one I should’ve beat out of you when I had the chance.”

Michael’s good mood sours. “Why do you constantly underestimate myself and my resources?”

“I don’t,” somebody scoffs from above. Michael looks up, and smiles meanly when he sees a mop of blond hair.

“Daddy dearest!” he croons. “How honored I am, to be in your presence.”

Tate rolls his eyes and flips Michael off, which Michael gladly accepts. Tate stomps down the stairs, shoulder checking his son on the way before he comes to stand next to his mom. “We saw him spirited away by some secret organization after they made him eat a virgin’s heart, Ma, is it really that surprising that there’s some secret world order that Satan’s left him in charge of?”

Michael nods proudly. “Finally, somebody smart.”

“Alright then,” Constance throws back the rest of her whiskey, “say you’re telling the truth. Why come here? You’ll find no loyal followers among us.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Michael thinks that it is. “I want you all to suffer. I want you to know that the end is coming, the true end, and that there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“What makes you think that we won’t welcome the sweet release of a true death?”

“A few might,” Michael admits. “Nora, perhaps, and the nurses. But you? Tate, the Harmons? No, you’ve seen your death as a second life. And now, that’s finally going to come to an end.”

“Is it?” 

Another person has joined the party, and Michael sighs before turning around, fully expecting to see his half-sister. Imagine his surprise when he comes face to face with the Supreme herself.

“Mallory,” he greets tersely. 

Of course the witch would be here in some sort of noble attempt to convince Michael not to end the world. At this point, her antics are tiring. Though, now that he thinks about it, when haven’t they been tiring? Mallory, specifically, has been a thorn in his side since the day she showed up at his front door and revealed that she was a part of the sinister plot to take you from him. Right now, he’s almost wishing that he hadn’t extended an offer of goodwill to her for rectifying her mistakes.

Mallory smiles, but he can find no kindness behind it. “Michael.”

“How did you find me?”

“You know as well as I do that tracking spells are child’s play.”

While that’s true, there’s a reason why she chose now to track Michael. “Y/n called you, didn’t she?”

Mallory nods, not even bothering to push back. “You know I’m going to say the same thing she did.”

“I do, and you know what I’m going to say.”

“I do,” she parrots. “You’re going to regret this, you know.”

“You know what? I don’t think I will. In fact, I think I’m going to enjoy this very much.”

“I’d like to make you an offer.”

“And what offer is that?” Michael asks dryly.

“Don’t end the world in the way that you’re planning, and you will have the coven’s complete support in another, less costly method of taking over the world.”

“I’m not hearing anything tempting here.”

“The sisterhood runs deep, especially these days. With our numbers and magic, we could easily help you with any sort of takeover.” She smirks. “You need all the allies you can get, especially considering your shortsighted move with killing all of the warlocks.”

“You should take it,” Constance says behind him. “Don’t you want to rule over a world full of people? People that are happy, and healthy, and eager to embrace you as their leader?”

This…actually has some logic in it, and Michael hates that it does. Hates that the moment he comes back to the home of his birth, he starts to second guess himself.

He needs to remain strong. He takes a step back, so he can look at both Constance and Mallory. “No. The apocalypse will proceed as planned, and that’s the end of the discussion.”

“Can I ask you something?” Michael wants to say that Mallory just asked him a question, but instead he motions for her to continue. “Why? With everything that you have going for you, with the future that you could have, why are you still deciding to end the world?”

“Because the future that I will have when I’ve fulfilled my birthright and rule as king of the new world, a world cleansed and rebuilt in my father’s image, is going to be miles better than any future where apocalypse isn’t the solution.”

She smiles. “So you think. End the world, then. When you regret it, which you will, remember that I’m the only one who can help you.”

Who does she think she is? To be offering her help to the Antichrist, as though he would ever need such a thing. He hisses out between his teeth, “Get out of my sight before I kill you.”

“Pssh, I’d like to see you try.” 

She’s calling his bluff, which only serves to make Michael more angry. Of course he won’t kill her today; not only would he not want a dead Supreme for incite the ghosts of the Murder House into some sort of uprising that might thwart his plans, but he also would like to give you less reasons to be angry with him at a time when he’s trying desperately to keep you on his side.

“The only reason you’re alive right now is because of my wife, and even that goodwill is beginning to wear thin.” He takes a step closer until their chests are almost touching. “Leave.”

“Alright,” Mallory acquiesces. “See you soon, then.”

She disappears. It’s silent for a moment, then Constance lets out a loud laugh (Michael only jumps a little at the harsh sound, and he blames it on childhood trauma).

“That little witch is going to tear you to shreds,” she declares triumphantly.

Michael glowers and fires back, “I’m almost tempted to change my apocalypse day plans to include a diversion here. I would take great pleasure in watching your soul be sent to Hell once and for all.”

Tate pushes his mother behind him protectively. “Don’t talk to her like that, asshole. Get out of here.”

“Oh, don’t act like you have such a loving mother-son relationship,” Michael allows himself to spit angrily before calming himself once more. “But I suppose you’re right. I should be going. Lots of last-minute planning to get done before the bombs drop, after all.”

“Go to Hell!” Tate says.

“I’ll see you all there, but until then, enjoy what little time you have left.”

Michael smiles smugly at all of the ghosts that have come out of their hiding spots to watch today’s entertainment, and he gives them a friendly wave. His eyes linger on the Harmons, who stand in the doorway of Ben’s old office. Said former psychiatrist has his arms wrapped around his wife, who carries their son, and his daughter. Despite trying his hardest to push away that need, he still feels a pang of longing. How badly he wanted Ben to hold him like that. What he would have given to even have Vivien look at him in a way that conveyed love.

Now, he knows the truth. He doesn’t need them. He’s never needed them; if anything, having a traditional family would have only held him back from what is his to claim. The world is going to end by his hand, and Michael Langdon will rule what is strong enough to remain, as is his birthright.

Just the way that it's been planned for centuries.

//

Tag list: @thatonehumanbeing05 @michaellangdon @xavierplympton @hecohansen31 @blakescoven @wroteclassicaly @we-did-it-joe @codycrazy @love-on-the-murder-scene @michaellangdonswhore @nsainmoonchild @langdonsjoyy @aftertheglitterfades @ferndolan @iamlivingforturner @moonlike333 @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @angiestopit @littleangel4996 @xo-angel-ox @ajokeformur-ray

[impossiblecollectorcat]

**Title: Haunted Hearts*

*Y/N had always been drawn to the peculiar beauty of old houses. There was something about their history, their creaking floorboards, and their long-forgotten secrets that made her feel alive. When she first saw the infamous *Murder House*, she knew she had to see it up close. People warned her about the stories—of the ghosts trapped inside, of Tate Langdon—but Y/N wasn’t one to shy away from a challenge.

The moment she stepped inside, she felt it: the heavy air, the whispers of the past. The house was eerie, but it didn’t scare her. It intrigued her.Days passed, and Y/N started to notice strange things. Shadows that moved on their own, voices echoing in the night, and sometimes, the distinct feeling that she wasn’t alone. She wasn’t scared, though. She’d always felt a little out of place in the world, and this house made her feel like she belonged. Like it had been waiting for her.

One evening, after the sun had dipped below the horizon, she sat on the grand staircase, lost in thought. That’s when she first saw him. Tate. He appeared at the top of the stairs, his blond hair messy, his dark eyes intense. There was something tragic and magnetic about him.“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice soft but full of warning.Y/N looked up at him, unfazed. “Maybe I should.”Tate’s eyes flickered with surprise. Most people ran when they saw him, or they tried to fight him. But not her. She stared at him with a calm, curious expression, like she was waiting for something.“I’m not good for you,” he said, descending the stairs slowly.Y/N stood, crossing her arms. “Who said I was looking for good?”A faint smile tugged at the corner of Tate’s mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t know what this house is capable of. What I’m capable of.”“I know what they say about you. I know the stories.” Y/N stepped closer, her gaze never leaving his. “But you don’t scare me, Tate Langdon.”For the first time in what felt like forever, Tate was speechless. He had spent years haunting this house, scaring away anyone who dared enter. But Y/N... she wasn’t like the others. There was something about her that drew him in, something that made him feel alive again, despite the fact that he was dead.

As the days went on, Tate found himself seeking her out. He watched her as she explored the house, always calm, always so unafraid. And slowly, he started talking to her. It began with small things—a warning about a dangerous spirit, a comment about the weather—but it soon turned into something deeper.Y/N wasn’t oblivious to the danger Tate posed. She knew what he had done, the terrible things that haunted him. But there was a sadness in him, a brokenness that called to her own.

She wasn’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the line, she stopped seeing Tate as a ghost and started seeing him as a person. A person who had been hurt, who had made mistakes, but who still had the capacity to feel, to love.“Tate,” she whispered one night as they sat together in the dimly lit living room, the air thick with the house’s energy. “Why are you so afraid of letting me in?”He looked at her, his eyes filled with pain. “Because everyone I love ends up getting hurt.”Y/N reached out, gently taking his hand in hers. His touch was cold, but it sent warmth rushing through her. “I’m not afraid of getting hurt. I’m afraid of not feeling anything at all.”Tate stared at her, his heart aching in a way he hadn’t thought possible anymore. “You should leave. This place... it will destroy you.”She shook her head, her fingers tightening around his. “No. This place... it feels like home. And you, Tate, you’re a part of that.”In that moment, something shifted between them. The barriers Tate had built around his heart began to crumble, piece by piece.

He had been dead for so long, lost in the darkness of his own mind. But Y/N... she made him feel again. She made him want to be better, even if it was impossible.“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, his voice breaking.Y/N leaned in, her forehead resting against his. “Maybe not. But I’m not going anywhere.”And just like that, the haunted boy and the fearless girl became something more. Bound by the shadows of the house, by their broken hearts, and by a love that was as tragic as it was beautiful.For the first time in his long, lonely existence, Tate felt hope. And though they were surrounded by death, their love was the one thing that made him feel alive.

But in a place like *Murder House*, happy endings were hard to come by. The spirits were restless, the darkness ever-present. And yet, Y/N and Tate clung to each other, defying the odds, defying the house. Because in the end, love—even the kind born in the darkest corners of the world—was the only thing that truly mattered.And maybe, just maybe, it was enough.

[velangdon]

AMATIVE→Michael Langdon: Chapter 1

The oppression in my chest remains constant with each step I take. I can occasionally feel tears welling up in my eyes, but I try to keep them at bay. Though I feel an oppressive knot settling in my throat, preventing me from breathing freely, I summon enough courage to approach the entrance of the Palace where the last and greatest party of the cooperative is going to take place.

Despite not yet finding the answers or the adequate reasons to understand how so many people here can feel comfortable celebrating an event that will mark a before and after in the world, the end of everything and everyone, the end of an era and the beginning of another.

Everyone is celebrating the future deaths that will occur tomorrow.

My body is trembling, and although I'm trying my best to keep my legs from collapsing at this moment, I cling to my father's arm. Gripping the fabric of his coat sleeves between my fingers and taking gentle steps to maintain my balance due to the anxiety and nervousness my body is experiencing.

"Calm down, Vitney. We're just approaching the entrance."

My father's harsh voice echoes in my ears, and my stomach tightens as I hear his words. I can't keep calm in a celebration like this, and especially not when I know the secret behind it all.

As we approach the entrance, the knot in my throat continues to tighten, preventing me from uttering a single word. I want to look at my father, but I know that doing so would only dig my own grave since my emotions would collapse and my vulnerable gaze would cause problems between us, not to mention I would receive a lecture from him calling me too sentimental about simple things.

Unfortunately, what seems simple to others is as important to me as my life itself. And this celebration is no exception.

After what feels like an eternity, we finally arrive at the entrance of the Palace where a man and a woman are welcoming all the guests. The woman, who appears to be no older than 25 years, wears an elegant dress with many details in the sleeves, but it's a very dull gray that makes her look sad and drab even though she gives a friendly smile to all the guests. She is in charge of collecting the invitations, and her partner, a man with tanned skin and a friendly expression, is in charge of keeping track of the guest list. He also wears a suit that seems expensive, but it's the same depressing gray as the girl's dress. My mind wanders a bit regarding their role here, which, although they don't appear to be slaves, they somehow manage to give off the impression of being servants of the place. And for some reason, a pinch registers in my chest as I dwell on this naive but profound thought.

When it's our turn for the reception, the girl in the gray dress gives me a sweet and cordial look. I make my best effort to return the same kind of friendly look, but I'm so overwhelmed by all my thoughts that I can barely manage to give her a smile. To my father, who is engaging in small talk with the man in the gray suit and making sure our names are on the list, I give a discreet and suspicious look. He looks so excited to be entering here that it gives me shivers.

"Everything is in order, your names are on the lists of second-tier guests" The man at the reception tells us. "Welcome, and don’t forget to grab a black mask from the box at the end of the hallway. The theme for this last celebration is a masquerade ball."

The mention of a masquerade ball surprises me a little. I've never had the depressing opportunity to attend a cooperative party, but I was completely sure that all the times my parents had attended similar celebrations, the theme was never taken into account, except for the dress code. And I didn’t know if it was something I should be worried about or not, but the idea that this could be deeper than it seems makes me feel anxious and impatient.

I'm lost in my thoughts until I feel my father gently pushing me to start walking again. The woman and man in the reception area lift a pair of elegant silk curtains in a deep crimson color that covers most of the palace entrance, and gesture for us to enter. I hold onto my father's arm tighter, practically just following his steps, unable to control myself.

As we enter the palace, I realize how gloomy and drab the atmosphere is. The decoration is so gothic, elegant, and dreary that I feel as if I am in a castle from the 18th century. The lighting is dim, but it allows me to see a bit of the style of the place, where the walls have details in gold and black. There are some chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and the light they emanate is a peculiar reddish tone due to the candles, which are the same shade. The windows have arches as the main detail, and the glass they are made of is slightly dark, as if it has some extra-material that does not allow light to pass through completely. Additionally, there are statues at each corner of what appear to be angels made of marble. They are enormous but beautiful, and it is easy to notice that they are very expensive. I can't completely distinguish the identities of the angels, as they are not familiar to me. But as we move farther and farther in, finally my gaze is frozen on one of the marble angels situated on the side of me, next to a dark hallway leading to deeper stairs. I force myself to stop walking and stand in front of the divine image.

"Lucifer" I quietly whisper to myself, as I am surprised and confused by the sight of the statue of the angel.

I can hear my father sighing next to me, and clearing his throat. My mind races for a moment and something in my chest presses firmly.

"What's surprising you so much, Vitney?" my father asks, a hint of confusion in his voice "There is nothing there"

"The statue, don't you see it? It's Lucifer, the angel..." I reply, pointing to where the statue is. His gaze is so confusing that it makes me want to cry.

"I said there's nothing there, Vitney. Enough" he says harshly, grabbing my wrist with some violence and dragging me away from there, making me walk quickly. "It's already late. We should have been at the celebration for half an hour"

I feel like protesting because of how harshly he speaks to me, but something forces me to keep quiet. The palace belongs to the cooperative, or at least that's what I understand. This means that everything here, including the decorations, are symbols that belong to what this society is. My father has just denied having seen the statue, but I'm sure that the marble angel was Lucifer.

Why does the cooperative have a statue related to the fallen angel?

"Vitney, you have to stop daydreaming" He puts his palm under my chin, forcing me to look at him "I need you here, darling. You know that this celebration is very important to me and your mother, don't you?"

"But dad, I was just..."

"Vitney, no. That's enough. We will enter the celebration and you will put a big and beautiful smile on your face, do you understand? You are my daughter, the daughter of one of the most important cooperative members" he says, squeezing my chin hard, making me gasp for air from the pain "Don't you dare ruin this, Vitney"

His words hit me hard in the heart. Again my throat closes and the prickling in my chest returns. I have never been enough for my father, and my role has always been to be what he wants me to be. The perfect daughter who acts like a shy and well-mannered young lady. Always wearing the most expensive and elegant clothing; the type of woman who has her life mapped out and resolved.

But none of that is who I am.

My father removes his grip from my chin and observes me sternly. Tears form in my eyes, but I hold them back to remember I have makeup on and my vulnerability will likely cause even more anger in him. I lower my gaze to the floor for a moment, until in my vision I see a very elegant and feminine mask in silver and gray tones with some crystals embedded in the edges, as well as lace around the corners of the mask. My father makes a gentle gesture for me to take the mask and place it. I do as he asks, tying the ties of the mask behind my head, a little clumsily because my fingers tremble softly.

"You look beautiful. Now all you need is to remove that bitter face and smile a little. I know you can do it, darling"

I take a deep breath and nod uncertainly. I try to smile as best I can, but I know it comes across as more of a grimace. My father's face lights up in response to my silly expression, and he puts his arm through mine. We walk down the hallway again, and with his free hand he puts on the mask he chose to use. There's nobody around, but the murmurs and music are starting to build. My body tenses a little, and the mere idea of being about to enter a celebration full of greedy and sick people like the cooperative makes me nauseous.

After a few minutes, we arrive at another long passage, but this time there is a delicate shimmer of light at the end of it. Some laughter and shouts of excitement approach, and a shiver runs from my feet to my head.

"Your mother must be completely hysterical not to see us coming." my father says, guiding me towards the entrance at the end of the corridor "You will have to explain the reason for our delay to her."

After hearing his comment, I press my lips together and frown slightly as I divert my gaze towards the new room we are approaching to. Many people belonging to the cooperative are in front of us, and they seem happy and incapable of allowing anything to ruin this moment that is so important to them. Some women are wearing high-end designer dresses, and utterly stylish masks. Men are wearing suits tailored from exclusive materials, and some masks are eerie. I don't know if I'm awestruck or scared, but the surprising thing is to see the repetitive colors in the outfits of everyone.

Red and Black.

As we move forward, the music becomes clearer and the murmurings a little softer. There are walnut wooden tables everywhere. Some attendees are sitting taking appetizers, and others are simply drinking their glasses or having a pleasant conversation. My eyes move from one person to another, and I realize with a start that some impudent and curious glances are directed at me and then at my father. I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead, but the corners of my eyes betray me and before I realize, I realize that all the attention is centered on me.

It could be because of my dress that doesn't even match the theme or the fact that we arrived with a visibly late delay. But in any case, discomfort begins to affect me, and I have never wished for anything as much as I want to escape from here.

"Look, there is your mother. I'm going to introduce you officially with important people. Be kind and polite, Vitney. It's the only thing I ask of you."

He points to a table in the corner of the room where a group of women and men stand, their masks and masks even more unusual than those of the other guests. I squint my eyes a little, distinguishing my mother thanks to his jet-black hair tied in a typical bun on the back of her neck. I see her laugh joyously, and for a moment her smile is contagious, spreading the delight that she emanates.

In a short moment, she throws a quick glance our way as we approach her table. Her lips part in surprise at our appearance.

"Vitney, my princess!" My mother screams enthusiastically. She quickly rises from her seat and runs forward a little, making her heels clatter against the fine marble floor "You look beautiful, sweetheart!"

She gasps with excitement and hugs me tightly as she reaches me, closing my eyes for a moment, as I feel the sensation of my eyes forming more desperate tears.

"I apologize for the delay..." I reply in a low voice, hugging her around the waist "I was just a bit nervous, and Dad got frustrated again, as always..."

My mother sighs and then separates from me. She gives the people seated at the table a quick glance before turning to me and walking with me to a place away from everyone. She strokes my arms and shakes her head softly.

"It's understandable sweetheart, these kinds of celebrations can be overwhelming and ... especially knowing that it's your first time in our world." She smiles. "Don't let your father ruin this last night for you"

Don't let your father ruin this last night for you.

An impulse of disappointment grips me, and again the oppression in my chest weakens me. My mother's words sound so harsh and true that I want to burst into tears. I don't know how I can bear being in this place, considering that the Apocalypse is around the corner. And that surely anyone who is underneath one of those masks or masks is the mastermind behind the next catastrophe.

My mother hugs me again, and even though I try to prevent it, I'm feeling emotional again. Tears run down my cheeks like a river, and I hold her tightly. I can feel that some people are looking at us, but the only thing I can think about is staying close to the only thing that has helped me stay on my feet since I was a child, and that's my mother.

It feels like a farewell, and that's what hurts the most. Because I'm sure she has no idea what's going to happen with us either, even though my father made it clear that the cooperative has built a kind of bunkers around the world to serve as a refuge for the elite.

We are supposed to be part of that elite.

"Don't make it sound like a farewell, Mom" I reply with a quivering voice "Please. We'll be fine, right?"

She looks at me, smiling sadly. She strokes my hair without saying anything, and then joins her hands with mine. More tears form beneath my eyes, and now I cannot stop them. She gives me a gentle squeeze on my hands. I'm about to ask her for all possible explanations she can give me because desperation is killing me slowly, but quickly she takes me by the waist, turning me to the opposite side of the room. She squeezes one of my shoulders, and I watch her in confusion.

"Mom, what are you..."

"Vitney, be quiet. Your father is coming here" my mother squeezes my shoulders, looking in a specific direction "Stand up straight, dear"

A few seconds later, my father is already standing in front of us. He wears an overly visible smile on his face and moves to my side, separating me from my mother's arm.

"Dear, you're coming with me. I need to introduce you to someone" my father says with enthusiasm, placing a hand on my waist and leading me through the tables "Be on your best behaviour, okay?"

"Who do I need to meet?" I ask, a bit irritated, not understanding the situation.

My father does not reply, and he forces me to keep walking between the tables, holding on to my wrist firmly. I want to get out of his grip, but he is stronger than me, and he does not notice my discomfort. I am a few seconds away from yelling at him to let me go, when a voice becomes present behind us, and my father stops abruptly. He turns quickly and forces me to do the same. I lower my gaze and close my eyes, refusing to face my reality.

"Good evening, Mr. Lacey" an unknown but authoritative, discrete, and masculine voice reaches my ears. It speaks to my father. I tremble a little but do not have the courage to look. "It's a pleasure to have you here, I thought you might not come"

"Sir, what an honour. Of course we would be here, we just had a small mishap" my father responds and laughs nervously.

I squeeze my fingers around my father's arm, and feel his body leaning towards me. He squeezes my waist and I jump in place a little.

"Stop acting like a frightened, immature girl. Be educated, Vitney. You have the most important representative of the cooperative right in front of us" he whispers in my ear in an ironic and aggressive tone. "You are already a woman, you have to stop running away from everything around you"

A tear runs down my cheek due to the hostility of his words. I have no choice, but I feel so anguished and nervous that I don't dare to look anyone in the eye. My father squeezes my arm aggressively, as a warning to let me know that he won't repeat things twice. Finally, I take the courage to open my eyes and lift my gaze. My vision is clouded by tears, but I manage to glimpse the outline of a man in front of me.

"Miss Lacey" the voice makes itself present again, and this time it speaks to me. I freeze in my place, but the man moves, walking in my direction.

I can't answer. I know that if I do, I'll start crying.

"My name is Michael Langdon and I am the representative of the cooperative" the man says in a formal tone "It is a pleasure to meet you, miss."

Then, for some unknown reason, as I hear his name, I feel my heart skip a beat. And I realize that I am on the verge of falling into my own perdition.

[Hey! The first chapter of "Amative" of my Michael fanfic is finally published. It was quite a challenge because my English is not very good and my novel is originally written in Spanish, and if there are any errors, please have patience as I still struggle a bit to translate my story into English.

I hope you enjoy the chapter, btw. <3]

[enchantedruin]

A Storm in Candlelight; a Michael Langdon Oneshot

Summary; simply a candlelit dinner with Michael, no warnings, just a lot of tension;

word count; 606

-~-~-

The room is steeped in a warm, golden glow, the flickering candlelight casting shadows that seem to move with a life of their own across the opulent walls. The table, set with fine china and crystal glasses, is the perfect stage for the quiet, smoldering tension between us.

Langdon’s fingers idly trace the rim of his wine glass, his gaze fixed on me. I sit with a stillness that feels almost unnerving, my presence like a flame—bright yet controlled, burning just beneath the surface. His composure intrigues me, but I’m careful to let nothing more than mild interest show on my face.

"You have a way of making the flames dance," Michael says, his voice low and smooth, the faintest hint of something darker lurking beneath. "It’s rare to find someone who burns so... quietly. I wonder, what keeps your fire so contained?"

A small smile curves my lips as I meet his gaze, my voice calm but with an undercurrent of intensity. "I’ve learned that the loudest fires burn out quickly. It’s the quiet ones that smolder for eternity. But I’m sure you’ve seen that for yourself, Michael."

His eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of intrigue passing through them as he leans forward, resting his chin on his hand, his expression unreadable. "And which kind of fire do you see in me? The one that rages or the one that waits?"

I tilt my head thoughtfully, my fingers lightly tracing the edge of my wine glass, my movements measured. "You’re a storm, Michael. Not just a fire. There’s a calm about you that lulls others into a false sense of security. But beneath that calm... there’s chaos, waiting to be unleashed."

A slow, calculated smile spreads across Michael’s face, but his eyes remain sharp, watchful. "Storms don’t always destroy. Sometimes they cleanse, make way for something new. But you—what do you burn for?"

My gaze drifts to the flickering candlelight before returning to him, my voice steady and controlled, much like the fire within me. "I burn for those moments of silence after the storm has passed. When everything is still, and the world is waiting to see what comes next. It’s in those moments that I find myself... and perhaps, lose myself too."

Michael leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable, though there is a hint of curiosity in his voice as he speaks. "You speak of losing yourself as if it’s a small price to pay. But I wonder... what would it take to truly ignite your fire?"

I hold his gaze, the quiet intensity in my eyes matching his as I respond with a slight curve of my lips. "Perhaps you should be careful, Michael. After all, even a storm can be consumed by fire if it burns hot enough."

He chuckles softly, a sound that holds as much amusement as it does warning, his eyes never leaving mine as he raises his glass. "Touché. But let’s not pretend we don’t both enjoy the dance. It’s what makes this dinner so... intriguing."

I raise my glass in response, my smile widening just enough to hint at the challenge that lies beneath my calm exterior. "To the dance, then. May it keep us both on our toes."

The clinking of our glasses echoes through the room. As we continue our meal, the air around us crackles with the promise of a storm that has yet to fully break— each waiting to see who will ignite the other first. ♥

[slut4evanpeters]

The other woman Pt.2

tate langdon x reader x violet (platonic)

warnings: little angst, violet is a queen, tate being an ass

word count: 1.7k

notes: sorry if this seems rushed, i wanted to get this out today but, thank you SOOOOO much to @jazz-berry for this idea, she actually is so smart cuz i probably wouldn't have even wrote a pt2 if it wasnt for her!

It was one of those rare, painfully quiet nights in the Murder House, the kind that seemed to echo with secrets. You were alone, replaying every agonizing moment you’d shared with Tate in your mind, lost in the ache of loving someone who would never truly be yours.

But then, you heard it—raised voices coming from down the hall. Violet’s voice, harsh and bitter, cut through the silence, followed by Tate’s desperate murmurs. Curiosity and a strange, painful hope drew you out of your room, down the hallway, to where they stood in the dim, flickering light.

“You lied to me, Tate!” Violet’s voice was thick with anger and disbelief. “You’ve lied about everything!”

Tate looked panicked, his face pale as he tried to reach for her, but she stepped back, glaring at him with a hatred that made him flinch.

“Violet, please,” he murmured, his voice cracking, “I was trying to protect you. I didn’t want you to find out this way.”

“Protect me?” She scoffed, crossing her arms tightly. “You lied about being alive, about everything! You kept me here, trapped in this house with you. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out that you’re dead?”

Tate’s shoulders slumped, his face etched with guilt. “I thought—I thought if you knew the truth, you’d leave me. I didn’t want to lose you, Vi. I need you.”

Her expression softened, but only for a moment. She looked over his shoulder, her gaze landing on you. Her eyes narrowed, realizing there was more to this than she’d first understood.

“And her?” she demanded, pointing at you. “Is she just some other lie, too?”

Tate’s face fell as he glanced back at you, guilt flickering across his features. He opened his mouth to speak, but you stepped forward, unable to hold back any longer.

“I’m not a lie, Violet,” you said, your voice low, though the pain in it was unmistakable. “Tate and I… we were together before you came here. I loved him.”

She looked between you and Tate, betrayal and anger swirling in her eyes. “So all those times you were with me, you were coming back to her?”

Tate tried to reach for her again, but she slapped his hand away, her voice trembling with hurt. “You… You had me believing that you cared about me, that you were only with me. And the whole time, you were playing both of us?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Tate insisted, his voice frantic. “I—I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I just… I don’t know what I’m doing, Violet. I love you, I swear I do. But I… I just….”

“No, Tate,” Violet interrupted, her voice icy. “You don’t get to say you love me and keep her here, too, like some backup plan.”

Your heart pounded, hearing the truth finally spoken aloud. You were the backup plan, the one he could always return to when he wasn’t with her.

“Violet, please…” Tate’s voice shook as he looked at her, desperation bleeding into every word. “I didn’t want to lose either of you. You both mean so much to me. I was just trying to—”

“Trying to what, Tate?” Violet snapped, her voice rising. “Trying to keep us both under your control? Trying to make sure we’re here for you whenever you need us?” She shook her head, her voice laced with anger and something darker, something that bordered on pity. “She loved you, Tate. And you used her.”

Tate’s eyes darted to you, his face crumbling. “That’s not true,” he said, voice weak. “I never meant to use her.”

“Didn’t you?” Violet challenged. “She was here, always waiting for you, wasn’t she? You’d go to her every time things got rough with me, didn’t you?”

You looked down, swallowing the bitter truth that had been there all along. Violet wasn’t wrong. You had been waiting, always hoping he would choose you, while he drifted back and forth, stringing you both along.

“Tate,” you spoke, your voice shaking, “if you cared about me, if you ever loved me, then why wasn’t it enough? Why did you need her, too?”

He looked at you, his eyes welling with tears. “I thought I could have both,” he whispered, shame coloring his cheeks. “I thought you’d both understand. I needed you both.”

“No, Tate,” Violet interrupted, her voice softer now but filled with disgust. “You don’t ‘need’ anyone. You just wanted us here to fill some void inside you. You wanted us around so you wouldn’t feel alone.” She scoffed, looking at him like she was finally seeing him for the first time. “You don’t know how to love, Tate. You only know how to take.”

Tate’s face crumpled as he shook his head. “Please, Violet, I know I’m messed up, but I love you. I love you both.” His voice cracked, pleading, desperate, but Violet’s expression was unmoved.

“If you loved us,” she said slowly, “you wouldn’t have hurt us like this. You wouldn’t have kept us waiting, lying to both of us.” Her eyes met yours for a brief moment, a flicker of understanding passing between you. You’d both been victims of his selfish need to be loved, both trapped in the same web he’d spun.

“Tate,” you whispered, stepping forward, feeling a painful clarity settle over you, “you made me believe that I was the only one for you. You made me feel like I was safe with you. But the moment she walked in, you couldn’t even look at me the same way.” Your voice wavered, tears finally spilling over. “I was just a ghost to you, wasn’t I?”

He shook his head, the tears in his own eyes falling fast. “No, no, I loved you. I still—”

“No, you don’t,” Violet cut him off sharply. “You don’t love anyone, Tate. You just want us to be here for you, no matter what it costs us.” She stepped back, her voice shaking with barely contained fury. “I can’t believe I ever fell for you.”

Tate looked at her, his face broken, his hands trembling. “Please, Violet, don’t say that. I need you—”

“You don’t need me, Tate. You need control. You need someone to cling to when you can’t handle being alone.” Violet’s words cut through him, each one a wound that bled out the guilt and sorrow he’d been hiding.

And then, his shoulders started to shake, tears streaming down his face as he choked on sobs. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I didn’t want to hurt either of you. I just… I didn’t want to be alone.”

The sight of him crying, broken and lost, stirred something painful in you, but you couldn’t forget everything he’d put you through. The lies, the betrayal, the way he’d left you waiting in the shadows while he poured his heart into someone else. You wanted to reach out, to comfort him, but you knew better now.

“You already are, Tate,” you murmured, your voice filled with sadness. “You were always alone.”

With that, you turned away, walking back down the hallway, feeling the weight of all the years spent loving a boy who never really knew how to love. Violet followed, leaving Tate standing there, his sobs echoing through the empty, haunted halls.

For the first time, you felt the strength to let him go, to let the house have him.

As you walked down the hallway, shoulders heavy with the weight of everything you’d finally let go, you felt a presence beside you. Violet had slowed her steps to match yours, her face reflecting the same mix of pain, anger, and exhaustion that filled your own heart.

She hesitated, glancing at you with something like understanding in her eyes. “Hey,” she said softly. “You okay?”

You looked over, surprised by the gentleness in her voice. After everything, you hadn’t expected her to care—or to understand. You managed a small nod, though your voice trembled. “I think I will be… eventually.”

Violet gave a sad smile, nodding. “I know it hurts. Believe me, I… I get it now. It’s like he takes up space in your mind, and even when you know he’s hurt you, you can’t stop caring.” She glanced down, voice softening. “I feel like I’ve been blind this whole time.”

“Me too,” you whispered. The two of you shared a silence that wasn’t quite uncomfortable but was filled with mutual understanding, a quiet acknowledgment of shared pain.

The days passed, and while the ache didn’t vanish, you found yourself drifting toward Violet’s room every so often. Sometimes, you’d find her reading, her face lit up in the dim light as she poured over pages, escaping the world in a way that you were all too familiar with. Other times, she’d come find you, pulling you out of the solitude you had once relied on.

One evening, you sat together in the kitchen, cups of tea in front of you, the quiet warmth of each other’s company making the house feel less lonely. You shared stories of your lives before the house, dreams you once had, the things you wished you could have done. It was strange, comforting even, how easy it felt, like she understood you in a way that no one else ever had.

“You know,” she said one night, giving you a soft smile, “I think you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

You looked at her, surprise mingling with something close to gratitude. “I could say the same about you.”

A small laugh escaped her, and for the first time, it felt like something in your chest was easing, a burden lifting ever so slightly. In that moment, you realized that you didn’t need Tate to find peace, to feel understood. For the first time, you weren’t alone, and it was enough.

Over the weeks, an unexpected friendship grew between you and Violet. You found a quiet strength in each other, a shared resilience that neither of you had known you possessed. Together, you made the house a little less haunted, filling it with laughter, quiet conversations, and companionship.

And while Tate remained a shadow, lurking somewhere in the darkened corners, you no longer felt his pull as you once had. You and Violet had found something more precious in each other. A bond that made the darkness feel less consuming, a companionship that was honest, comforting, and real.

In each other, you’d found the strength to move on. And in each other, you’d found a friendship that made even the Murder House feel a little bit like home.