#american horror story asylum | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ahqkas · 3 months ago

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♯ GOD KNOWS I TRIED ; kit walker

PAIRING! kit walker x fem!reader

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

WORD COUNT! 4.1k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kit Walker was the man of your dreams.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sister Jude.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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v4mpbab3 · 6 months ago

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type of vibe i bring to the function 😋

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wherewritersgotodie-blog · 29 days ago

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Thousand Yard Stare — Kit Walker x reader

A battleweary soldier and a clairvoyant girl who is a little too curious.

warnings: piv, unprotected sex, sadism if you squint, war, psychopathy idk, ptsd

AU in which Kit Walker was sent to war and was traumatized, which is why more people don’t believe that he in fact wasn’t Bloody Face. Alma, nor the aliens, are mentioned, however this version of Kit is still not guilty, even as it is not clearly stated.

I do not specify said war below, but the timeline aligns with the Vietnam War. To clarify, this is entirely fictional and not indicative of my views on experiences of people who’ve served.

This AU takes place in the late 60s. Kit Walker is in his late 20s/early 30s, unspecified.

Deinstitutionalization (the closing of many psychiatric hospitals) began in the late 1960s in Europe then in the U.S.A. shortly thereafter. In this timeline, Kit is admitted after Briarcliff is sold to the state.

Take everything I write as pure work of fiction and not indicative of my beliefs on any life experience of real people. This is fantasy.

Dead dove do not eat.

Happy reading.

You’re the first truly beautiful woman he’s seen since being overseas.

Sure, a few pretty girls out on the town before he was locked up in Briarcliff, but none so exquisite as you.

He couldn’t stop staring.

The way your body pressed against the gray romper you wore, which seemed as though it was a bit small for you. He deduced that a male staff had likely administered your clothing in the smallest sizes so they would fit the way they did.

He wondered if you felt uncomfortable in them, if you knew how easy it was to guess exactly what was underneath. That alone could get him off: watching you adjust yourself as you stood up, look down and pull on the fabric, hoping for it to offer you some privacy from the rest of the patients and staff— to no avail, of course.

He usually sat in corners, staring into the room or sometimes out the window. That was, until you showed up.

He wondered when you’d notice his constant gaze. You’d been here about a week, and not yet had you even made eye contact with him.

He sort of liked that, how unaware you were. Like easy prey.

Something has flipped in his brain, something sick and scarred.

All that emptiness, that endless void in the pit of his stomach was now filled— rather, overflowing— with lust, vengeful and unforgiving. Every minute he was out of bed he spent watching your every move. Perverse, twisted images of the violating things he would do to you were he ever to get his hands on you rushed his mind as he watched your often bare legs as you walked and the teasing silhouette of your waist and chest underneath your clothes. He wanted to make you feel dirty. He wanted you to be covered with his filth, just as he was.

He wasn’t always like this. Before the war, he was actually quite the gentlemen. Sure, he’d had quite a few girlfriends, but he was kind to all of them. He brought them flowers, bought their milkshakes, kissed their foreheads and gently whispered in their ears as he made love to them.

That version of him died right alongside the people he killed in the jungle— with guns, with his bare hands. That version of him died with his brothers in arms, of whom he helplessly watched bleed out just beside him on the battlefield. The light left his eyes just as it did in theirs.

The faces of those girls were simply shadows now; that version of himself the darkness.

He couldn’t remember if any of them were as beautiful as you. He doubted it.

You certainly weren't an alert person. You entered every room without scanning either direction, as if you'd never been in danger a day in your life. He admired that naivety— revered it, even. He could stare from the minute you entered the common area until you left without meeting your eyes once.

He stared at your hair often— the way you'd tuck it behind your ears as you scribbled in your notebook with your short pencil, which was cut to just about an inch long so you couldn’t hurt yourself or any of the other patients with it.

Most patients didn’t get the privilege of even regulation writing tools or reading books other than the Bible. He wondered what you had said– or done– to get such privilege, or if it was your pretty face that was just able to melt a man’s resolve enough to give you whatever you wanted. Other patients had rebuked you for your unfair advantage over them, but it wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t help that everything about you made men curious about how your pussy felt.

He loved your legs, too. On days your legs were uncovered, he'd watch as your thighs rubbed together, your knees pressed to your chest. He stared as the fabric rode up your leg, teasing the soft skin of your perky ass. Your skin was smooth, your face soft and cherub-like. If he believed there was a God, he would believe that you were made to save him from his emptiness.

It wasn't until halfway through the second week that he finally got your attention.

You were in the common room, completing your daily mundane routine of reading and drawing. You had hardly introduced yourself to anyone, as you were trying to keep your head down and not become one with the wildness of Briarcliff. You thought, maybe, if you didn't interact with anyone, if you played the game right with the psychiatrists, if you reflected their language and healing back to them just right, maybe you had a shot at going home.

Today, though, you were desperate for some company. You craved conversation where you weren't screamed at or spoken to like a child or a criminal. Once you were finished sketching a vase of flowers– from memory, as you hadn't seen a flower since your admission to Briarcliff– you looked up from the page and glanced around the room. You began to fear that there was no one at Briarcliff who would at all understand you. No one seemed to be so lucid as you were, let alone able to hold a substantial conversation.

Just as you were about to return to your sketches, more frustrated with the state of things than before, your gaze instinctively flickered in the direction of a pair of brown eyes, watching you with a dead stare.

You recognized them– they were the eyes from a dream you'd had a few weeks prior. You hadn't slept for days after.

You couldn't see much through the smoke. It was enough to drown in. You felt your breathing get shallow and labored, but it didn't seem to be suffocating you. Your vision stayed steady.

After a few moments of directionless wandering through the endless gray swirling in the air, a shadow emerged from the distance with a heavy stride. You first identified it as a man. As he marched forward through the smoke, which was slowly dissipating, you saw the outline of heavy gear on his belt and a machine gun swung over his shoulder.

You went to move in the opposite direction of him, but you were froze in place.

Your heart pounded as he halted just a few feet from you. You eyes flickered to the all but fluorescent green forest behind him, realizing then that the smoke had cleared entirely.

You looked back at the man, scanning him from his dirt-covered boots, to his belt of bullets, heavy-duty camouflage jacket, black helmet, cloth that covered his face up to just above his nose, and, finally his eyes.

Deep brown, lacking definition, you watched as they traveled up from your hips, resting on your waist, then your chest, landing to gaze directly into yours. Your breath hitched.

There was an unmistakable blankness in them. They'd look exhausted, mournful, angry, maybe, if it wasn't for the endless black, that slack expression– emptiness.

You felt it to your core, like all the life had been sucked right from you, too. Suddenly, your limbs felt so heavy and your eyes were burning and the smoke was returning to the scene. The empty eyes ran up and down your figure once more, before the man turned his back to you.

You woke up in a cold sweat.

Those eyes, they were the same. Even from across the room, you could see how shallow they were—like all emotion, all humanity, had been ripped from behind them.

You could swear there was a smirk playing on the right corner of his mouth, but the shadows cast on his face from the window beside him made it hard to tell. Like a killer Mona Lisa.

He allowed his eyes to wander all across your body in the lewdest ways possible, full of lust that circled the air.

You felt it deep in your chest now. The emptiness was almost infectious, and it caused you to panic.

Just like the dream, you were frozen in place, watching those dead eyes.

You weren't sure what to do with yourself, so you offered him a small, twitching smile and a raised hand. Your chest, though, was heaving, and gave away your fear. Then, you were certain he was smirking.

When you finally pulled your eyes away from him, you gathered your things and rushed back to your room.

That night, his thoughts of you were so perverse they were violent. He was sick with his obsession with you.

He laid awake, facing the ceiling, fisting his cock, imaging you riding him, your hair a mess all around your bare shoulders, your hips rolling against him. As he got closer to release, his thoughts became more twisted. He imagined you beneath him, his hand wrapped around your throat as he forced himself into you, tears gathering in your round eyes as you stared into his. They'd be filled with fear, he was sure.

In the same hour, you dreamt of those eyes again, but this time, they were on top of you, and you could see a glimmering silver in the lower rim of your vision.

When you saw him in the kitchen the next day, you resolved to approach him, whether it was a good idea or not.

You walked up behind him, while he was facing the opposite direction, and tapped him on his shoulder. He turned around slowly, and when he met your eyes, that smirk returned to his face. His eyes were at half-mast again, and they scanned you shamelessly once more.

"Hi," he said, a toothpick in his mouth. His voice sounded far-off, like it a was ringing from a distant land– it was almost ghostly.

"Hi," you said, trying to shake that unsettling familiar feeling his eyes gave you. "I'm (Y/N)."

"I'm Kit. Kit Walker," he said, checking your hips once again.

"I know," you say, "Bloody Face."

"Nnn," he hummed, shaking his head, "I killed a lot of people," he said, "But those women back home? I didn't touch any of 'em."

"I know," you say, not breaking eye contact, as hard as it was. He could feel your discomfort. He reveled in it. "Thank you for your service."

That sent chills down his spine. The images flooded back for just a moment— the death, the carnage, the thrill. "You're welcome, sugar," he drawled. It felt oddly personal, like he really had been fighting for you.

You asked him a few questions about the war, to which he replied with short, vague answers. Your curiosity about the man whose eyes you had predicted only grew with his mystery.

Finally, after he’d grown tired of dodging your morbid intrigue, he settled on asking, “So how’d you end up here?”

You told him your sordid tale. How you had been able to predict future events all your life. You rarely told anyone about it.

You saw in a dream a vision of a girl, a girl you knew, being brutally murdered out on the edge of town. You wrestled with it for days, then finally resolved to telling her. She relayed your strange omen back to your family, who called you crazy for even suggesting such a thing could happen. So, when the girl in fact died, her family was quick to point fingers at you. As it was, her father was a prosecutor himself, and before you knew it, you were stuck in Briarcliff for a murder you hadn’t committed.

He simply nodded. He had no stake in the matter. He of all people knew that killing was situational— anyone could do it if they were given a good enough reason. Even pretty girls.

“So, how are you managing?” you ask, voice soaked in concern. You then push yourself onto the counter with your palms, straightening your arms and hoisting yourself up. You adjust yourself to sit on the edge of the counter. You don’t bother to pull the fabric of your dress down, which makes the full length of your thigh up to just about two inches below your hips visible to Kit.

He doesn’t bother answering your question, his gaze now flickering from your legs to your face rapidly.

There’s something penetrating that emptiness in his eyes, even stronger than the lust that’s been coming to a boil.

Hunger. Starvation.

You can feel it radiating off him— a need to fill that void now becoming a ravenous beast threatening to pounce.

Now you understood.

He could hardly breathe. So close to you, able to feel your body heat, able to reach out and touch your pussy, your ass, to see the outline of your nipples through the fabric covering your chest. They were hard, he could tell.

After the things he’s seen and done, after the places he’s been, offending you is the last of his worries. “I haven’t been this close to a beautiful woman since before I left the states.” He places a hand on your thigh.

“Oh,” you gasp instinctively.

“God, your skin is warm,” he practically groans, his head dropping to lean on your shoulder. Your muscles tense at the familiar action from the unfamiliar body. He runs his palm up and down your thigh, flat against your skin.

It’s like you already belong to him, he’s feeling around your thighs, pressing his face into your neck like he’s trying to milk every second of contact between your skin and his. He’s groaning into your neck, now placing each of his hands on the opposite sides of your thighs, feeling up to the soft skin of your ass and down to your knees.

He was worshipping you.

When you finally accepted him, you placed a hand on the back of his neck. In response, he press his hips against the counter and groaned into your collarbone as if you’d just put his whole dick in your mouth.

He was starved. Weary and uncaring, and you were feeding him and healing him with the warmth of your girlish fingertips and Playboy legs.

“I wanna touch your pussy so bad, sugar,” he mumbles into your neck.

What’s a girl to do? A handsome man who’s been overseas, who has been forced to do unimaginable things simply because his birthday was picked on the television, a man who bravely served his country and is now paying for it with his freedom, asking to touch you?

“Okay,” you hummed.

He pushed his hand into your cotton underwear, pressing his fingers to your wetness. He couldn’t resist then. He pushed his two fingers into you, earning a yelp, then, with his other hand, wrapped his fingers in your hair and pulled down— hard— causing you to whine again. He gripped harder, and your scalp burned.

“You like that?” he asked.

“No,” you mumbled.

“No?” he responded. Your neck was forced back as far as it could go, which added to the pain of his assault on your soft locks. It didn’t help, too, that he was pushing his fingers into you, and it was making you ache powerfully.

“Uh-uh,” you whined.

You heard a door close down the hall. You looked up at him in fear, and for a moment, you almost thought he was going to keep you in this compromising position, however, he pulled his fingers out of you slowly and stepped away from you just as the staff came to check the room. You jumped onto the floor, and you both put on your best business-as-usual act. Just as more patients entered the kitchen, he leaned in to whisper in your ear, “I’ll come find you.”

I’ll come find you.

The words replayed in your mind over and over.

“I’ll come find you.” I know where you are. You can’t escape me. You’re in it now.

That evening, during dinner, he didn’t even bother to look up at you. He was going to have you.

That night, in the dark of your small, locked room, you waited. In just a cotton t-shirt and white panties, you waited, back against the wall behind your bed, knees pulled in. You fiddled with your fingertips, internally criticized your legs. You looked like you were expecting someone.

The light from the window poured into your room. Moonlight and street lamps made a twilight of your hour before midnight.

Was he coming? Were you disappointed? Was he caught on the way here? Is it normal to be so worried about him? Were you really crazy?

Then came the keys jingling. Then the door opening. Then, Kit.

He took a moment to take the vision of you in, leaning his head on the door. “I didn’t think you’d wait up for me.”

You only smiled in response, which you didn’t really understand. His knees got weak. He closed the door behind him.

He got a good sight of your body, barely clothed, your hair in a braid that had dozens of strands that had fallen out. He thought he could finish right then.

He wanted to hurt you, that he couldn’t deny. But he wanted to be able to have you again. So, he did what any gentleman does: he played you slow.

He climbed onto your bed, kicking his shoes to the floor. He put his hands on your knees, leaning over you, then muttered, “All this for me?”

You stared up at him, wide eyed, nervous. You bit your lip and nodded.

“Yeah. For me,” he cooed.

He went in, starting at your neck, kissing down to the collar of your shirt. His hand traveled to your chest. You weren’t wearing a bra.

He put his thumb against your nipple, rubbing it gently, determined to hear you squeal. He squeezed lightly and you did.

He continued at your neck until his hand reached the stitch of your shirt. He grumbled and pulled it over your head.

He could swear his heart stopped.

On the field, thinking of these moments kept him alive. Civility, femininity, the possibility that a woman might be naked in front of him again.

He went straight for your chest, his mouth attacking your cleavage, your nipples.

You were still leaned up against the wall, but your legs were now parted, knees bent, his body between your thighs.

As he sucked on your nipple, his hand traveling down to your underwear, his fingers flattening against the cloth.

You were wet. His head dropped to your chest. “Fuck,” he whispered. He rubbed over the cloth with the back of his knuckles.

Then, he pushed his hand down your underwear, his fingers running along your slick. “Fuckin’ holy shit.”

You look up at him, a deep blush hitting your face that doesn’t go unnoticed, even in the dark.

“You really want me, don’t you?” he taunts, half shocked, half disturbed by your lack of self preservation, or lack of basic common sense.

You nod. You bite your lip and you nod.

He stares at you, working you with his fingers underneath your underwear, until he, frustrated with the stunt they put on his skills, pulls them down to your knees.

“You don’t… You don’t have to… I wanna take care of you,” you mumble into his shoulder.

“Aw, sugar,” he whispers, biting your neck. You gasp. “Your pussy’s gonna take care of me just fine.”

You groan into his neck. He reaches up and wraps his fingers in your hair and pulls down hard. Your back arches and he latches his mouth onto your nipple. It’s overwhelming, the combination of sensations. That’s when he reaches his hand around and latches it onto your throat and presses onto either side.

When he brings his mouth back up to the crook of your neck, combined with his finger speeding up against you, it’s enough to push you over the edge. You wrap your arms around his neck, attempting to stifle the sounds squeaking from your throat.

After he has let go from your neck, you reach down to undo his belt.

“Eager little lady, huh?”

“Oh, Kit,” you mumbled against his mouth. You attempt to push him on his back, but he doesn’t budge. But when you flutter your eyelashes at him, though, he gives into you.

You swing your leg over him, straddling him. You lower yourself onto him— you couldn’t quite see in the dark, but you can feel that he’s very big.

When your pelvis hits his, he moans. It’s not soft, it isn’t breathy. You can hear his tone of voice, the dryness of his throat. You think maybe the other patients may have heard, too. He latches his hands onto your thighs, hard.

It hurts, bad, especially when he digs his nails in. It’s entirely possible he’s drawing blood, but you can’t see. You squeal, but it’s suppressed.

He doesn’t miss this. He was smart, and even in the dark he could read you like an open book. You were letting him hurt you.

He wasn’t sure if it was pity or a lack of self-protection. Either way, he decided to accept it, even though it actually made him want to be more gentle.

He always took pity on the people he killed who didn’t fight. You were like that. Like a deer who doesn’t know to be afraid.

He retracts his nails from your skin, resting them flat on your hips. He pushes you back and forth, very gentle.

He let out a string of, “Fuckyou’retight, fuckyou’rewet, fuck, I can hear it, Isthisallforme? You’redrippingalloverme,baby,” to which you replied with incoherent moans as your ability to stay upright become more and more difficult.

As he started to roll himself up into you, you were grabbing at his thighs trying to hold yourself up.

Out of pity, he propped himself up on his hands, wrapping his arm around your waist. The heat from his body drove you over the edge again. You moan into his neck, mumbling his name, and then somewhere in there, “I love you.”

He chuckles at this, but it catches between moans, and he breathes out something like, “You better.” You come again as he does, too. He pulls at the roots of your hair again, arm wrapped tight around your waist. It just then occurs to you that you weren’t using protection.

After you peel yourself off of him, sweat making your skins feel like one, he pulls you into his chest as he melts back into the bed.

“Baby, you are some homecoming,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your face.

“Anything for our bravest,” you smile into his chest.

He laughs like he just won the lottery.

#american horror story #evan peters #evan peters ahs #ahs #kit walker #ahs asylum #evan peters x reader #kit walker x reader #ahs kit walker #american horror story asylum #kai anderson ahs #tate langdon

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behindthescreamz · 1 year ago

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lily rabe as sister mary eunice on the set of “american horror story: asylum” (2012)

#lily rabe #sister mary eunice #american horror story #american horror story asylum #ahs asylum #horror #behind the scenes #ryan murphy #2010s horror #ahs #mary eunice #horror tv #horror behind the scenes #possession #demon nun #sacriligious #asylum #satanism #women in horror

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misscherrys-world · 1 month ago

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Day and night.

Warnings: smut, p in v, dacryphilia, degradation. Fingering (fem receiving). Unprotected sex. Spanking (both ass and pussy) The reader and Kai are kind of lovers but Kai doesn’t like “labels”.

I got lazy checking for any mistakes so please just forgive me and pretend it’s not there.

I personally believe that Kai has a thing for spanking cunts because he’s a sadistic mf.

𝔐𝔶 𝔭𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔳𝔦𝔢𝔴:

I stood in Kai’s kitchen before the sink washing our dinner’s dishes when I felt his arms sneaking around my waist and his head resting on my shoulder.

“Hmm, you look so pretty when you’re playing the good housewife.” He hummed as he started planting soft kisses along my neck, pressing my back against his chest even more.

I smiled as I felt the familiar butterflies flattering all around my stomach.. those damn butterflies..

“Kai~ someone will see us~” I was worried if someone from the cult sees us in this position. Kai was the one who wanted to keep things secret between the two of us. And I didn’t question him.

“Then we have to go upstairs to my room.” He bit on my sensitive skin.

As we headed upstairs his hand started to squeeze my ass. “Look at that great ass of yours I wanna see it all red and plumbed facing me.” He whispered in my ear. Goosebumps appeared on the nape of my neck and heat rushed to my cheeks.

As soon as we stepped into his room he pushed me down the bed. “There’s only 2 rules today..” he started ripping my shirt off “The first rule, no cumming without my permission” he continues ripping my clothes off, my bra, my shorts and my panties. “The second rule, don’t you dare moan loud. We don’t want others to know you’re such a cum slut now, do we?” I was gasping in need, I always liked how strong he was. I loved how he manhandled me. “N-no.. we don’t want others to know..”

“Good girl” he started kneading my breast pinching my nibbles lightly. “Ahh~” I moaned softly, he knows how sensitive my nibbles were and he used it against me. “Tsk tsk. Look how drenched your pretty little cunt is” his middle finger slides into my folds, he arches his finger finding my g-spot immediately. My breath hitched as I tried to suppress a loud moan.

“Shhhh, good girls follow the rules.” I whimpered as I clenched around his finger. He added another finger and increased the pace. I felt the familiar knot forming in my stomach. Kai felt I was close, suddenly he withdrew his fingers and slapped my pussy tenderly. “I said you’re not allowed to come yet” a small whine came from my mouth. “Kai..” he chuckled “yes, love? What is it?” I looked at him as he started unzipping his pants. “Why can’t I cum..?” He gave himself few strokes before holding my thighs in his hands pulling me closer, positioning the tip of his dick into my throbbing pussy.

“Because my little princess. (A grunt as he slided into my cunt) it’s called taming. You can’t just go do whatever you want without my permission.” I was about to moan when he covered my mouth with his hand. He started pounding roughly never giving me a chance to adjust. Tears glossed my eyes while he pounded into me roughly. “That’s it, cry for me, show me how much you love my cock.”

Before I could cum he pulled out and flipped me into my stomach starting pounding into my drenched cunt again. A muffled moan escape my mouth as he buried my face into the mattress. “You’re so fucking pretty like this.” A spank landed on the right cheek of my ass and his hand quickly soothed the sting I felt.

“Mine, all mine.. so damn pretty, nobody deserves that pussy more than me.” Another spank landed on the left cheek, this time was way harsh so I cried loudly. “Shh shhh, don’t let the others notice how whiny and aroused you are by my cock. I can do it all day all night, my little cum slut.”

“Mhmm.. K-kai… I’m gonna.. c-cum..” Kai increased his pace as he whispered into my ear “Beg me”. I muffled a moan and I pleaded him. This went for about 10 minutes until he gave me permission to cum. As soon as I came he planted his seed inside me. “So fucking pretty. Spread your legs and stick that pretty pussy of yours out” I obeyed and once I arched my back to stick out my cunt he gave it a spank. “Uhh.. whyyy..” I cried from the sudden harshness of his action. “Don’t question your god when he’s taming you.”

He stood up pulling up his pants again. “Stay here I’ll get you something to wear.” He left me in the room trembling and crying out of pain and pleasure. With that our day was over and I got ready to leave. I wish he was more softer with me but who am I to complain? I’m lucky he’s giving me the chance to take his cock.

#misscherrysworld #american horror story #evan peters #ahs #ahs cult #ahs hotel #james patrick march #kai anderson #ahs murder house #ahs fandom #kai anderson hcs #kai anderson headcanons #kai anderson smut #american horror story cult #american horror story asylum #Spotify

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marchsfreakshow · 4 months ago

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Sweet Treats and Gentlemen [Kit Walker]

Fluffy to all hells

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

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

No one's perspective

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's nothing at all."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hours passed.

The sun continued to shine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"sounds like a plan darlin'."

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

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

#ahs #ahs asylum #american horror story #american horror story asylum #Asylum #evan peters #ahs fic #ahs imagine #kit walker #kit walker x reader #kit walker x y/n #kit walker x you

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