#tate langdon au

[rosecoloredsunshine]

heartbreak warfare — tate langdon

masterlist

PAIRINGS: tate langdon x female!reader

SUMMARY: drawn to his quiet intensity, you fall into a love that feels inevitable, desperate, and doomed. but the house is filled with ghosts, and tate is not just a boy—he is a tragedy, a storm you didn't see coming until it was too late.

REMINDERS: please be reminded that this is a work of fiction. meaning that all events and occurrences in this story are all fictional and all are part of my imagination. any resemblance to actual life events and people, living or dead, are all purely coincidence.

WARNINGS: no use of y/n, messy and toxic relationship (but not really highlighted in the story), angst (i guess), and minor typographical errors.

WORD COUNT: 2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: i honestly don't know what went on with my thought process when i wrote this, i think this is not one of my best written story, it's kind of messy and a bit random for me. but i hope you guys enjoy this one!

The house was wrong from the very start.

You knew it the moment you stepped through the front door, past the stained-glass panels and the creaking wood floors that sighed beneath your weight. The air also felt heavy, like it had been trapped inside for decades, festering. You tried your best to ignore all of it. Your parents, eager for a fresh start, had brushed off your unease, fully convinced that a historic home with ‘character’ was exactly the family needed. But then soon came the voices. The shadows in the corners that flickered when you looked too closely, and the nightmares that were not really nightmares at all.

And then, there was him. Tate Langdon. Tate appeared the way ghosts always do—when you were not looking for him. The first time that you saw him, he was sitting on the floor of your bedroom, his back against the bed, legs stretched out, completely at ease in a place he did not belong. His golden curls fell into his eyes, dark and knowing, and he smiled like he had been waiting for you.

“Hey,” he said so casually, like it was all normal, Like it made sense.

You did not scream. Well you should have, but there’s something in his voice that softened the edges of your fear. Instead, you swallowed hard and took a step back towards the door.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you said.

He tilted his head, amusement flickering across his face. “Neither should you.”

That was how it all began. It was not love at first sight, no. It was something darker, deeper, more insidious than that. It was a slow unraveling, a quiet pull in your chest that tightened every time he was near. Tate Langdon was magnetic in a way that made no sense, a storm you didn't see coming until you were already caught in it.

Tate made you feel seen. In a house that is filled with echoes and ghosts that whispered your name in the dark, he was solid. He looked at you like you mattered, like he wanted you, and so, you let him in. From there on, late night conversations on the floor of your bedroom, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin. Stolen moments in the hallways, with his touch lingering just a second too long. Kisses pressed to your forehead, your jaw, lips—gentle, at first, before they become something that is desperate, that aches. It was not love. Not really. It was loneliness that was disguised as something beautiful.

Then one night, you woke up to screaming. Not yours, not your parents’, but hers. You followed the sound down the hall, heart pounding, breath catching in your throat. You saw her—Violet Harmon, another girl, another ghost, another shattered soul that is trapped inside this god forsaken house. You had heard of her through Tate, but never actually gotten to talk to her. She was crying, her voice raw with something beyond pain, with Tate standing in front of her.

Not the boy who kissed you in the quiet. Not the boy who traced your name onto fogged-up windows. This Tate was something else. A shadow, a storm. Violet shrank away from him, her body trembling, and you knew, deep inside of you, that this had happened before. You had spent enough time looking at Tate through the light that you forgot to check the darkness, his darkness. When Tate turned towards you, his face softened into something apologetic, pleading, and you knew. You knew, and it didn't matter. It was already too late.

You pulled away after that. Stopped answering when he whispered your name, stopped letting his hands find yours in the dark. You saw him for what he was, and it hurt more than it should have. Tate tried to explain, tried to promise that it was not what you thought, but his actions told another story.

“Tate, I can’t,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I can’t be part of this.”

Tate looked at you like you had ripped something out of him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“But you do,” you said, shaking your head. “You already have.”

Tate had never been real, not really. He was a boy made of ghosts, grief, of a past that is too heavy to carry, and you had loved him anyway—or maybe, you had loved the lie.

There are times that you want to leave. But leaving him was impossible, because Tate was a part of the house, and the house wouldn't let you go. No matter how much distance you tried to put between you, he was always there—watching, waiting, and hoping. You hate him for it, but you hated yourself more, because despite the terror, tragedy, and the weight of his mistakes, there were nights that you still wanted him. Nights when you ached for the warmth of his hands, the way he said your name like it was sacred.

You could not forgive Tate, but you could not stop loving him either, and maybe, that was the cruelest thing of all.

The house was quiet one night, but it was the kind of quiet that weighed heavy, thick like fog that you could almost choke on if you let it. Your parents had gone to bed hours ago, their bedroom door closed, and their arguments for once silenced by exhaustion. You wished that you could say the same for yourself.

You had been lying wide awake in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, watching the way the shadows from the street lamps bled in through your blinds. You kept thinking about Violet, the way she had flinched from Tate. The way Tate’s face had not changed at first—eyes red and cheeks stained with tears before he realized you were there, watching. Your hands still trembled when you thought about it, and you could still hear her crying if you listened hard enough, even though you knew she was not there anymore. Maybe she never really was.

Pressing your face into your pillow, you fought the urge to scream, cry, do anything that could potentially wake your family and force you to explain the things you had seen. You were not even sure if they would believe you, and you were not sure if you wanted them to. Knowing the truth was its own kind of prison. But that night, something gnawed at you, something tugged, and eventually, you gave in. You decide to slide out from under your sheets as quietly as you could, bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor, sending a chill up your legs. You grabbed your sweatshirt from the end of the bed, put it on, and went out of your room.

The house was dark, too dark. There was something about the murder house during the nighttime—it was as if the house became a living, breathing thing. Walls pulsed with the weight of memory, and you could hear it in the silence. The wood groaned underneath, and you winced with every step, heart pounding too fast in your chest.

Tate was sitting right outside your door. He looked small like that, smaller than you had remembered. Curled in on himself, knees bent, arms wrapped tightly around them. His fingers were white-knuckled where they gripped his sleeves, and head tipped forward slightly, blonde curls falling in front of his face. He looked like he was praying, or mourning, or maybe both.

You hesitated, stomach twisting painfully, a sick knot you could not untangle. Part of you wanted to turn around, lock yourself inside your room, and pretend that Tate was not there. Pretend that he had not been haunting the edges of your life from the moment you stepped into this house. Pretend that you had not let him in. But instead, your feet carried you forward. You sat down next to him slowly, back pressed against the wall. You didn't look at him first, you couldn't. Your eyes fixed on the opposite side of the hall, tracing the grain in the wood paneling, as if it might offer some kind of answer. Some kind of escape.

The silence stretched between you, taut and aching. You could hear his breathing, it was uneven, ragged at the edges. You could feel his presence like a heat at your side, a gravity that pulled at you no matter how much you resisted, and finally, he spoke.

“Do you hate me?”

Tate’s voice was soft. Not the kind of soft he used when he would whisper your name in the dark, this one is different. Raw. It scraped down your spine, leaving splinters in its wake. You swallowed hard, your throat burned like you had been holding back tears for days. Maybe you had, but you don’t know anymore at this point.

“I don’t know,” you said, voice cracking on the last word.

It wasn't a lie.

You wanted to hate him. God, you should have hated him. You should have hated the things he had done and the things that he was still capable of. You should have hated the way he lied to you with every soft touch, every kiss, every hollow promise. You should have hated the way he made you forget all of it when he looked at you like you were his salvation. But you couldn't, you were not sure you ever could.

You heard Tate exhale slowly, like your answer had gutted him. Maybe it had, but you did not look at him. You kept staring ahead, heart pounding so hard that it hurts. Your hands were in your lap, gripping the hem of your sweatshirt to keep them from shaking, but it was not working. Tate shifted beside you, leaning his head back against the wall. You could feel the movement, feel the way his body relaxed just slightly even though his hands were still clenched. His fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but didn't dare.

“I love you,” he said so quietly, you almost did not hear it, but you did.

The words hit you in the chest. You let your head fall forward, hair shielding your face, and lungs burned like you had been underwater for too long.

“Don't…” you trailed off, “don’t say that.”

“I love you.”

Tate kept saying it, over and over again, like it might make it true. Like it might fix something. You closed your eyes, nails digging into your palms. You hated him for this, for making you feel this way—not letting you walk away, for being so much a part of you now that you didn't know where he ended and you began.

“You don’t know what love is,” you said finally, voice low and trembling. “You just take things. You take and take and you ruin them.”

Tate was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was broken. “I know. But I never wanted to ruin you.”

You wanted to believe him, at least a part of you did. Maybe that was the worst part of all. You finally turned your head, finally looked at him. His eyes were glassy, bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion and something deeper—something like regret. You wondered if he even had the capacity to feel regret, if it mattered. You let your head thump back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. You could head the faint hum of the house around you, walls breathing in time with your own ragged inhalations.

“We’re already ruined,” you whispered. “Both of us.”

Tate did not argue with you. He didn't offer any soft lies or pretty promises. He just sat there in silence, hands finally inching closer until his pinky brushed against yours. It was a featherlight touch, a quiet question. You didn't move away, didn't answer him either, because there wasn't an answer, not really. You could hate him tomorrow, could leave him tomorrow, and could pretend he didn't already have a part of you that he’d never give back.

But not tonight. Tonight, you sat next to him in the dark hallway of a house that had already swallowed too much. Your fingers brushed, bodies close but not touching, and in the suffocating quiet, in the heartbeat between what was and what would never be again, you and Tate both understood—this was all that was left.

It was never going to be enough.

© rosecoloredsunshine, 2025

[bunbunbl0gs]

︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶ ⊹𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶ ✩𝒏𝒉𝒍✩ ✩ 𝒐𝒃𝒙 ✩ ✩𝒈𝒐𝒕 ✩ ✩𝒅𝒐𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒐 ✩ ✩𝒕𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒑 ✩ ✩𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒑𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 ✩ ✩𝒉𝒐𝒕𝒅 ✩ ✩𝒕𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 ✩ ✩𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 ✩ ✩𝒑𝒖𝒓𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 ✩ ✩𝒂𝒉𝒔 ✩ ✩𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎 ✩ ✩𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒏𝒘𝒐𝒍𝒇 ✩ ✩𝒕𝒎𝒓 ✩ ✩𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒔 ✩ ✩𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓✩

[hatelangdon]

Omg just read your fav genre is whump and i literally never seen any whump blog for American Horror Story, lol...

As someone who is also obsessed with AHS and whump myself, can i possibly request a whump story for Kit Walker inside Briarcliff pls? That poor babe just suffered so much in there, but i gotta say i just love the dramatics 🤭

Tysm, I'd really appreciate that!

Fragile

Kit Walker x Fem!reader ✩ 1.2K words

Summary: Dr Arden was never a merciful man, Kit soon became an interest of his. Someone needs to extend him some kindness and nurse him back to health.

Angst, Hurt-comfort, semi-fluff

**Not proofread and probably an insane amount of commas and other errors but it'll be aight.

Warnings: (🚨 Talks about infected wounds, fever, bruising, medical abuse, Mental abuse, physical abuse, asylums, bleeding, and time period inaccuracies probably 🚨)

(A/n: Kitson, my angel, my beloved. I hate hurting him but I love the angst. Thanks for the request I didn't know what kind of whump you were interested in so I tried to combine all aspects 🤭 I was gonna k!ll him but I was feeling nice)

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆

You and Kit weren't too different from each other, both convicted on crimes you did not commit.

Female hysteria. That's what they call it when a woman was too smart, so a man locks her up to keep her quiet.

This was a cruelty that was extended to you by your own husband.

Kit was thrown in on convictions of murder, bloody face is what they called him. People wanted someone to pin a string of murders on, it was a convincing smear campaign that even you believed at first.

 But as you got to know kit as a person, as you got to know his heart, you realized he could never be capable of inflicting so much pain, especially on a woman. His character proved his innocence.

A friendship blossomed quickly between the two of you, and a delicate love that remained unspoken. It communicated itself through stolen glances and kind words

It was something just for you two to understand.

Kit was always a gentle and kind man. He always stood up for what he believed was right which is what often got him in trouble, he was too headstrong.

It had been three days since the last time you saw him, he had been dragged away by the guards for “inciting a fight” after some pervert had tried to grope one of the newer patients without her consent, you were hoping that he had just been bent over sister Jude’s knee and caned a few times, although she was harsh she sometimes had an understanding side to her

but alas, Kit hadn't returned.

That was until today, when kit was dropped off in the community room completely unraveled from his usual charming self. His eyes were glassy and seemed to stare into a void, and his body was scuffed, scraped, and bruised all over.

“Maybe that fried some sense into you walker” The guard chuckled as he dropped kit’s limp body onto the floor right in front of the couch where you sat.

You felt your throat tighten as the tears welled up in your eyes. You kneeled down to comfort him.

Immediately you pushed his hair back, your hands gentle and forgiving against his damaged skin, you could see where the metal from the shock therapy had burned him, he must've been under it for a while. His cheeks were flushed and feverish, his breaths shallow, you could tell it was hard for him to breathe from the way he winced as his chest rose and fell, the bruises on his back made you wince, the purple wounds spread across the sides like an angel that had its wings clipped.

He leaned into your touch, scanning your face like he was trying to remember who you were, if you were kind or if you would also cause him pain. His eyes were empty and lacked their usual warmth he tried to speak to you, his attempted words becoming sobs when he noticed how you were looking at him. How you pitied him.

"y/n-" he started, his voice hoarse.

“You’re gonna be okay kit, you gotta be okay. Can you walk? I can help you, but I need to get you out of here," You shushed him

He nodded, holding onto your shoulders.

You wrapped your arms around his waist, feeling a wet spot as you pressed your abdomens together.

You looked down...Kit was bleeding, a lot.

",we're going to our special place, okay? I stored some of my things in there"

There was a small storage closet hidden away in the corner that was accessible just down the hall, it was empty except for a couple of desks and chairs from when Briarcliff used to be a school. You and Kit would usually sneak off to smoke together and talk about what you would do when you finally got out of this hellhole.

Since you were technically a non-violent case you weren't searched as thoroughly when you arrived, In school you had received a bit of nursing training, you knew Briarcliff could be rough, you heard the stories and rumours, so you brought a first aid kit in your bags and stored it away the first day you were allowed in the common room.

You two took small unsuspecting steps towards the room making sure that the guards were not looking, as you slipped into the closet, closing the door behind you. 

“Kitson, I'm going to put you down OK?” you warned him

He nodded as you gently lowered him onto the cold ground. He winced feeling the pressure against his bruised back. 

You pulled the first aid kit from its hiding place in one of the desks. It was complete with some gauze pads, rubbing alcohol, a spray disinfectant, rags, medical grade needle and thread, and and a roll of bandages.

 You rolled up his shirt to examine the site of the bleeding, he had been practically cut in half and badly stitched up. The wound was jagged and puffy, it was definitely infected or on its way to being.

"It was Arden," Kit managed to speak up, tears falling from his eyes as he tried to catch his breath "If this takes me, you gotta tell 'em it was Arden." He cried out

"I won't let you die Kit, i'm going to save you," you tried to sound confident, for both of your sakes. You pulled one of the rags out and folded it into a thick square, placing it in between his teeth "This is going to hurt angel, you're gonna want something to bite down on."

He obliged, fully trusting you and biting down.

"Just keep breathing, it'll be over before you know it."

He looked up at you wide eyed as you shook the can of wound wash.

"3....2...1" with that, you sprayed the wound down.

Kit struggled against it, immediately crying out, his face turning bright red as the stinging engulfed his body in what felt like the fires of hell, pure agony.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! It's to stop the infection. The hard part is over!" You graced him with a kiss to the forehead, as he sobbed.

You covered it in some gauze, applying slight pressure to soak up the fluids of the wound, before gently wrapping his abdomen in bandages to keep it safe from further harm.

"We'll have to change this out in a couple of days instead of everyday. We don't want to run out" you sighed, removing the rag from kit's teeth.

He was still in massive amounts of pain from all of his injuries, the road to recovery would be difficult.

After laying there for a couple of minutes, while you cupped his face, gently rubbing his tears away with your thumb and cooing to him, he spoke up.

"...Arden says I got two days to recover. Then he's gonna continue his research." He swallowed, his tears falling rapidly.

"That's not going to happen, my love," You pressed his hand to your lips ever so gently "save your strength, the rumours of a tunnel to the outside are true, and I know exactly how we can get through them."

Kit looked into your eyes, a glimmer of hope shining. He even managed a small smile.

"I believe in you doll, I always have. I always will."

[thecrackshipdiaries]

Danielle Campbell and Evan Peters

[andre-worlds]

"Stop moving so much, William."

"It hurts a lot," he said like a little child.

"Well, it's going to hurt more if you keep moving and complaining." said irritated.

The 18-year-old boy stayed as still as possible so that his 19-year-old older brother, soon to be 20, could finish closing his wound. Tate has had so many problems in his life that he is repeating the year with his brother and at least he can be with him to defend him tooth and nail.

Tate's hand didn't even take control of himself, it seemed like he was just the spectator of his own actions. Something wasn't clicking in Tate's consciousness and he wasn't liking feeling this way at all.

"Since when do you know how to do this?" Billy asks, looking into his eyes curiously.

"Since always, be thankful you didn't have to go to the hospital for this" he touches the wound and laughs at Billy's reaction. Inside, Tate didn't even know how he could do it and say all those things.

"Ouch, can you be more careful, Taite?"

"You're crying a lot, little brother." He stretches out his cheek, releases it, and pats him. He couldn't even feel the warmth of his brother, he wasn't feeling anything as if his body was anesthetized and he feared for everything "Sometimes I wonder how-"

***

"Why is it still raining? Why?" Billy questions with one last tear escaping and falling onto Robin's clothes.

Buckley looks at the gray sky, but doesn't see the raindrops. As soon as she knew what he meant by the question, she stroked his curly hair and sighed, "I don't know."

***

"Listen to me, everything has an explanation" Billy smiled because he finally knew the truth behind his own death, and he didn't have to live with constant confusion.

"Let go of me," he pulled out of his grip, feeling disgusted by his simple touch. "You're a bastard. You should never have come close to me and I should never have fallen in love with you!"

"Steve, please, I'm begging you. Listen to me" he begged, he had never begged so much in his life and he needed to clarify a situation as important as his past.

"For what? So that you can excuse yourself for all your cruelties? I have already forgiven you many things, but I will never do this, not even in death."

Here for full chapter 👀

[tates-striped-sweater]

Violate Instagram Pages

[habits-white-rabbit]

Trish / Edward / Alex / Tate / Terrence

calling ur dad “my father” is just the socially acceptable way of saying “my dads a bastard and i hate him”

[sturnslutz]

introducing.. murderhouse!matt

WARNINGS OF THIS AU!! if you have seen AHS season 1- murderhouse, yk this shit is CRAZY. i will not be including everything in this season obviously (that's also plagiarism !) and because i don't feel necessarily comfortable writing all of that. (the things i will not write from this season, off the top of my head btw, matt will not be a school shooter, he dies another way. he will not rape reader's mom wtf. yes crazy ik, thats AHS.) if anyone else has done this au please let me know! i got this idea from an edit of tate langdon lol if you are not comfortable with this au, don't read it. plain and simple. thanks yall

headcanons will be coming out soon for him and sardonic!reader! her moodboard is here.

IF YOU WOULD NOT LIKE TO BE ON THIS TAGLIST FOR THIS AU, PLEASE LET ME KNOW.

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[lua-bunny]

Headcanons - Tate Langdon

imagine this as an AU where Tate just died, but didn't do the school massacre, because....too sensitive to imagine!

The reader is gender neutral!

Tate alive (90s)

-He carries one of your hair ties or a bracelet on his own wrist. He randomly stole from you one day and you never noticed. If you eventually notice, he will tell you that he likes to carry a part of you with him.

-He loves skipping school and would make you skip school to be with him.

-He would hate to go to the prom, but if it's important to you, he'll make an effort and go.

-He would probably take a while to tell you he loves you because he thinks it is initially a sign of weakness.

-He is intelligent, but not the kind of school intelligence, but rather specific, things he learned in life with his interests.

-He listens to Nirvana, a lot, and he'd be really happy if you liked Kurt or something.

-He probably fell in love for you very easily, before you even knew who he was.

-If you're one of those persons who likes rock music and has a piercing, a tatto or something like that, this guy will fall at your feet, easily.

-He hates being yelled at. It reminds him of Constance and his stepfather and he hates them. It doesn't stop him from screaming or anything, but he definitely cries afterwards.

-This boy is JEALOUS. If you were a popular person, like a cheerleader or a player, maybe a band singer, he would freak out over all the applause and attention you get.

-He's weird, so he'd probably dedicate some song with questionable lyrics, or some Russian movie about cannibalism and he'd hope you loved it as much as he did.

-He would never invite you to his house. He would also never tell his family that you are more then a friend. Not out of shame for you, but out of shame for his family.

-He would let you paint his nails black (just black) and he would help you paint your nails. He also agrees to do your makeup if you want to or let you do black smoky eyes (even if he pretends to hate it).

-He would probably write you cute notes and put them in your coat, your bag or even in your car

-If you were a fan of horror films, he would curate with you which film is the bloodiest. If you were scared, he would put some weaker scary movies on TV and hug you so you wouldn't be scared.

-He's terrible with feelings. He feels like everyone hates him, and he feels like he hates everyone. You'd basically be the only exception, but it means he'll never really let you go.

-He has a lot of sadness and repressed anger (taking into account that in this AU he never killed anyone) so he would be someone quite unstable, he would probably have borderline or bipolar depression, but he wouldn't go to any psychologist.

-He is really unique (especially in the 90s) so it would really be difficult to find someone like Tate.

-He is definitely a pathological liar. He will lie for small and useless things. that you will never discover and that in the end will become true in the story you remember.

Tate dead (Murder house season)

-He doesn't understand the concept of privacy. He doesn't care about looking at your cell phone, or your computer, saying personal things about you to your friends or parents and he doesn't understand you wanting to do things without him/without telling him. If you date him, he literally wants to be attached to your hip. As if you shared the same life.

-He HATES you having parties at Murder House or having your friends over. He will always complain about not getting attention and about how idiots all your friends are.

-Like I said, he's not good with feelings, so the only way he can express himself is by crying. He cries. A LOT. And he always expects you to comfort him (he would also use this to manipulate you if he did something bad)

-He likes to be validated. He's never received this from anyone so if you say nice things to Tate, he'll definitely love it (and probably cry)

-He likes listening more than talking. So sometimes he will sit on your bed, cross his legs and listen to you talking about anything for hours.

-He really likes contact. Be it sleeping hugging you, kissing you, or placing a hand on your thigh . He will always have one finger touching you.

-He will recommend you books, movies, songs and he expects you to like to them all and tell him about them.

-If he is angry about something or someone, he would like to be hugged like the little spoon and have his hair stroked while he complains about something that upset him, eventually, he would get angrier and knock over one of your decorations, or he would punch something, but he would always cry about it (Tate is a good cry baby)

-He would like to hide in places you couldn't predict to watch you. He likes to do this while you sleep, or while you're in the bathtub, just to make sure you're alive and well.

-He hates being trapped in that house so he would never want you to be trapped. He would like you to stay in the house because you want to and not because the supernatural trapped you there.

-He would hate the fact that you have to go to school/college/work because it means he can't check up on you and that you could be in danger.

-He's a bit obsessed with hair. He would love to touch your hair and he would love for you to touch his too.

-He would make very specific and different compliments, never obvious things. "I like the shape of your face", "the smell of your hair is good", "I like your accent", all those things.

-If you smoke, drink or something like that, he will get angry, because that means you can die outside the house and leave him, or die inside the house and get angry with him.

-He protects you from the other ghosts in the house and even from his own mother (who keeps invading your home).

-He would find a thousand things to do with you on Halloween, since it's the only day he can leave Murder House. He would like to do things that make you seem like a normal couple, for you.

-Since he can't be your boyfriend in public, he would like some matching jewelry, some tatto, anything to show that you were his and vice versa.

-He usually feels what you are feeling. If you are angry with someone, he is too, if you are sad with someone, he is too, and so on.

[rainforest-daisies]

Kinktober 23’ masterlist!

A/n: Heyyy…hey..how y’all doin😀 this is so on brand of me to post the masterlist 2 days before october🧍🏻‍♀️

1|breeding kink-steve harrington

2|Thigh riding-Natasha Romanoff

3|Shower sex-Daryl Dixon

4|Cockwarming-Spencer Reid

5|Mommy kink-Ethan Landry

6|Begging-Sam Winchester

7|Overstimulation-Robin Buckley

8|body worship-Ellie Williams

9|mirror sex-Sirius Black

10|Uniform kink-Leon Kennedy

11|Loss of virginity-Peter Parker

12|Strap-ons-Hazel Callahan

13|car sex-Billy Hargrove

14|Bondage-John B Routledge

15|mask kink-Simon ‘ghost’ Riley

16|Brat taming-Rafe Cameron

17 |praise kink-JJ Maybank

18|Degradation kink-Rafe Cameron

19|Dry humping-Tate Langdon

20|Face fucking-Rafe Cameron

21|Face sitting-Ethan Landry

22|Knife kink-Billy Loomis

23|Exhibition-JJ maybank

24|spanking-Wanda Maximoff

25|hair pulling-Spencer Reid

26|lingerie-Maddy Perez

27|Sex pollen-James Potter

28|Choking-Regulus Black

29|Orgasm control-Billy Hargrove

30|hand kink-Steve Harrington

31|Serial killer AU-Rafe Cameron

[habits-white-rabbit]

Tate

21 Halloween Makeup Ideas to Try This Year

[vi0l3tluvsu]

Dead Girl’s Paradise.

hc!au!Tate Langdon and dead!reader

Tags ; spiteful reader , clueless Tate , bonding, death, biting , violet mention!! , comfort , yelling

Word Count: 2868

A/n ; Tate langdon is a bit ooc and this is an AU fic. I got this idea from a Jack Kays’ album (deadbeat) . it’s very little reread and it’s probably terrible 🫶🫶 enjoy it’s my first work

Tate Langdon moved into your house just over a month ago and since moving in he’s rearranged your furniture, taken down your posters, and blasted terrible music from a strange device. You glare at him sometimes, watching him lazily drag about the house and complain in his sloppy journals about school and his mother. If you could speak, you’d laugh at him. His journals were that of a mad man. The world needs to burn. Everyone must suffer. You scoffed at his insane rambles, at his thoughts of going into his school and .. well he’d never do it. He was a coward. Every time Constance opened her mouth, he fled. Hid in his room and cried, scribbled and ripped pages. Some of what he wrote was almost poetic, if it weren’t him writing it. The world will bend and all that will be left is the ashes of what could have been the best, but failed before making it. You rolled your eyes, kicking the papers about the floor. Sometimes, just to drive him insane, you moved his CDs around his room, Nirvana in his closet. Kurt Cobain singles CD in his boxer drawer. Tate was boring. The most boring teenager you’d ever had the misfortune of watching move in and then, just as expected, move out. Except only his family moved out and, despite every wish you’d had, he’d stayed.

You stayed relatively hidden from him. A shadow in an empty house as he rotted in his bedroom, but his mopping was getting annoying and now he was the shadow that was torturing you. In your own house.

“Hello..?” Tate’s voice called out into the dark of his bedroom. The scuffled sound of his desk chair moving away from his desk had startled the poor boy awake and he sat, eyes wide, staring into the darkness that almost dared to reach out and touch him. A gun cocked somewhere on his bed and your eyes moved from the chair to him. You were standing just about ten feet from him, your blood stained hands pulling the chair closer to you, further from the desk. “I’m - I’m not afraid!” He spit as he said it. As if he needed to convince himself before anyone else, “I’ve .. got a g-gun!” He called out, aiming into the darkness and at you.

The moonlight barely lit his room, like a dull candle in the center of a ballroom, he was shaking and you could hear it. You sneered, stepping towards the shell of moonlight cascading across the floor in front of his bed, your feet were light. The floor board creak just barely audible as you touched the wood, three feet from him. “Who are you?! How’d you get in?!” His voice cracked, you could hear true fear. From the same boy who had said he’d kill all who wronged him. You leaned your head forward, hair just barely falling in front of your face as your eyes met his. His blue eyes struck a cord in you as your nerves spiked. He was really holding a gun at a ghost.

You grunted at him, eyes narrowing. His lip pulled up and he made a face that was somewhere between disgust and fascination. Your eye brows folded in which narrowed your eyes even more. You stepped closer to him, hands reaching out toward the bed. His gun followed you as you pushed your way toward him until the barrel was sticking to your forehead. He seemed frozen in time, his eyes fixed on yours, unmoving. Unblinking. You turned your head slightly to see him past the gun and his eyes moved to follow yours instinctively.

“You’re..” his hands trembled under the weight of the small pistol in his hands, “you’re dead too?” The words struck you funny. Too. How could he be dead? He was more alive looking than any living person who passed through. You huffed, sitting back onto the bed and watching him. He put the gun down, well, dropped the gun down… “How long have you been.. uh.. stalking me?” His words stuttered out of him like he wasn’t sure where to start. You shrugged, eyes dropping to his covered legs. “Okay..” he sighed, “uh.. what’s your name?” His eyebrows knit together and he backed up slightly. You put a hand to your throat and looked around. It’s hard to answer someone with cut vocal cords. You grabbed his arm and he flinched, instinctively pulling back with a yelp as you forced up his sleeve and were faced with scars from wrist to elbow. You skimmed past it and started tracing letters onto him. He leaned his head forward and looked at the rest of your body. The collar of your shirt was drenched and smeared in thick dark red, the gentle lace of it forever ruined, the cream shirt layered on top was also stained but not as badly . It laid just off your shoulder to show off the Lacey under shirt, the sweater bunched up where it met your jeans. He scanned back up until his eyes fell upon your neck. He pulled back, a little red. You pulled back too and you must have looked as confused as he looked concerned. “Uhm. Sorry, I like your.. sweater..” his eyes shifted to your sweater, then your neck, and back to your sweater. “So .. pretty name..” he smiled softly, his sudden okayness with you seemed weird but you chalked it up to him enjoying not being alone anymore. “What’s your- oh.. wait.. - I mean-“ his legs slid out from the covers and he stood. The sun was rising outside the window and as the light started to hit the curtains Tate paced mumbling questions to himself.

“Okay. What’s y-“ he turned towards the bed, and you were gone. Retreated to the safety of your attic to avoid being really seen. You sat, cradling yourself until you started to doze off, small dreams came to you in flashes. Your parents at the funeral, your body still lying in a river not too far away. Your dog, Clover, left to forever search for you.

“Hello?” Tate’s voice rang out from the floor below, he was searching every nook and cranny to find you. Your sudden appearance had given him a chance to socialize and apparently he wasn’t letting that go. “Uh.. HELLO?!” His calls became louder, almost piercing. He called out your name, opened every cabinet, closet, and drawer. His desperation leading him everywhere but to the attic. For now, your haven of silence was gone but you hoped he would give up searching and- “there you are!” You had missed the creak of the attic door opening and now Tate was staring at you, a weak smile on his face as he carefully approached you. “Uh.. I was calling for you. I guess you didn’t hear.” He sounded cold, but kept a smile anyway. You shuffled away from him, trying not to let him get close enough to touch you like you’d touched him. He stepped closer still, backing you against the far wall of the attic, “you know. It’s been months since I had someone to talk to.. it’s nice to have company.” He gestured with his hands as he spoke, picking at the sleeve of his dark sweater, “Why’d you run away?” His eyes were piercing as he asked, his footsteps getting closer until he was almost nose-to-nose with you. “Why’d you leave me alone again?”

You were stunned, fear took over you. You stared up at him. He wasn’t much taller than you, maybe two inches, but it was enough. His eyes trailed to your neck again, the scar that spanned the width of your neck. You bent your head down raising your hand to cover it, his hand reached to grab yours. It was a gentle tight, the kind of pressure that wasn’t uncomfortable. You bent your head more trying to cover up your neck as much as possible. His other hand slowly touched your cheek, his light touch a shock to your nervous system, he pushed your head up until you were looking at each other again. His face was soft, his eyes searching your face up close now. He was taking in all of your features as you struggled against his wrist. He hummed to you, but his sudden sweetness didn’t change the bitter taste that was left in your mouth by the position you found yourself forced into. He’s hand drifted, thumb running along your lip, you parted them letting him fall into a false security before leaning forward and biting down on his thumb.

“Ow?! You bitch!” Tate stumbled back, falling over a box and hitting his head against the low ceiling, “I was trying to be nice!” You fled, tripping down the attic steps and nearly falling down the main ones until you reached the basement. The cold cement felt good against your socked feet and you found a corner curling into a ball and taking deep breathes.

After your first “run-in” with Tate you let the weeks pass hiding in his shadow as he searching relentlessly for you. You assumed his searching was to hurt you, but as you watched him pace and write, as he became more desperate to find you, the realization that he was just as lonely as you were hit like a brick. Eventually, he gave up searching and went back to his room locking the door and playing his awful music again. He gave up finding you and so you gave up watching him, retreating to the attic only to find a neat pile of clean clothes on the floor behind the door. You had spent so much time in your new hiding spot, the basement, and following him around that you hadn’t thought to check on the attic. Now, you had a pit of regret about avoiding him. In the pile was an oversized gray sweater, a pair of jeans, and mismatched socks. They must have been his sister’s clothes at some point. Guilt started to eat you as you slipped into the new clothing, it was weird to not feel the starchy and stiff of blood on your shoulders and around your neck but the change was welcome along with the new smell. You sat in the attic, the idea of going and talking with Tate felt foreign, like a small knife cut into your chest and dug out your insides. Grinding your teeth, you stood in the doorway clicking the knob’s lock as you debated whether to go and see him. The idea left you nerve wracked so you turned and locked the attic opting to stay hidden just a little bit longer before letting him find you again.

It took a few days for you to work up the courage to actually go and knock on his door but the day you did his music had ceased. There was no noise coming from his room and the door was wide open, Tate sat motionless on his bed holding a picture. You stepped forward into his doorframe pushing at the hinges of his door as it creaked open. His head shot up and he took in the image of you in fresh clothes, it was midday and despite not enjoying being seen in sunlight you couldn't be picky anymore. "Oh. it's just you." his tone was cold, any trust that had been built or affection that could have been gone. "I see you.. found my gift." he swallowed the words clutching the photograph tighter, you stepped forward sighing. The closer he stepped the more protective of his photo he became until you were sitting next to him on the bed and the photo was flipped upside down. "I was looking for you, you know." His mouth twisted into a sort of frown as you nodded, of course you had known. He was practically screaming your name all throughout the house. Awkwardly you rubbed your legs and Tate relaxed a bit, the guilt you had felt was still eating you and without being able to say sorry you were left with the feeling. Your eyes drifted down to the photograph. Instinctively, you raised an eyebrow, curiosity was never your strong suit but the silence was enough to kill even the bravest person.

Tate noticed you take an interest and quickly put it in his nightstand, "It.. It's none of your business." he blushed saying it, like it should be your business but he couldn't explain why. You rolled your eyes and stood heading for his door. It was useless to try and be friendly with someone like him. "Wait.. where are you going? Don't disappear again." He stood with you grabbing your hand and tightening as you turned to meet his gaze. There it was again, that gentle pressure that had driven you away the first time. You didn't pull away this time, it was as if some invisible line was wrapping around you. A voice begging you to stay. You turned, hand in his, and stared expectantly into his eyes. "I just.. I don't want to be alone again." He rubbed his thumb over the pad of your hand, the gentle circles felt like fire igniting under your skin but you let him. You huffed, letting him lead you back to the bed. You spent the next few days this way, laying about his bed and letting him ramble to you about what he called, "the latest". You didn't understand any of it. He slowly taught you about the current 2006 "pop culture", how to properly use a computer and what the name was of the strange device that played his horrid music. A Boombox. It became apparent that since your untimely end, a lot had changed. That you had changed. Tate rambled on about My Chemical Romance and how overrated The Fray was, almost all of it was lost to you. Yet, you were still content listening, despite not answering almost any question you were given Tate could answer them for you. "Do you think Nickelback will always be this popular?... Probably not. I mean like two of their songs are good.." You never tired of his talking, theories, and weird movies. Soon you were consumed by Deep Sea, Silent Hill, and Air Buddies. Tate's strange taste grew on you, now you were picking out movies, songs, even TV shows to watch on his old laptop. It wasn't too bad, hanging out with him, and obviously he didn't think you were too bad either. Until you walked into his room early in the spring of 2007, wearing a purple knit sweater. You had found it in a box hidden in the basement, and Tate screamed. "Where did you find that?! Take that off! You've ruined it! It was pure!" he had ran at you, frantic, but had been careful where he touched the sweater so as not to damage it at all. The shock of his yelling had startled you too much and you fled. Fled to the attic, locking the door. Tate followed, close behind but not close enough when you slammed the door in his face. "Wait, I-.. I can explain- Please give me the sweater back. Please. You don't understand it's hers." You didn't answer, just stood breathless behind the door as he walked away. A few minutes past when you saw a photograph slip under the door.

"It was vio- .." he went quiet, unsure of his words, "it was a .. friend of mines.. we met at school and. She was important to me, so please. Give it back." you took off the sweater, careful to fold it neatly before opening the door a crack and giving it to him. His sigh of relief once it was with him again was a calm you'd never seen in him, as if the mere reminder of her was enough to tell him it was okay. "I'm.. Thank you.." he mumbled. You closed the door and picked up the photo, it was creased and smudged in the corner where you could tell he was holding it too tightly, his sweat wearing it down. The girl in the photo looked beautiful. She stood next to Tate, just a few inches shorter, holding a lit cigarette and flipping off the camera, her tongue sticking out. Tate was holding the camera and smiling, a peace sign just barely in view, like he held his hand a certain way so as not to cover her. She was wearing that purple sweater, the same one you had put on. You walked silently to Tate's room, he was curled up on his bed hugging the sweater. You put the photo down on his nightstand and curled up with him, hugging him from behind. "She was everything to me." he buried his face into her sweater as your hand pet his hair, you had never comforted anyone before but this was how your mom comforted you when you cried. He let out a sob, turning to you and wrapping an arm around your waist, "I'm glad you didn't disappear again. You remind me a lot of her."

A/n: eeeee Thank you for reading!! I'm sorry it was so long<3 and I'm sorry if the ending was unsatisfactory.. I ran out of ideas for this one but I wanted to post it because i liked the writing

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

HALLOWEEN PROMPTS (a little late...)

I’ve been so busy with personal projects that I completely forgot to make that prompt list… (please forgive me!) Since October has already started, I will be making the list short and letting you know that I’m in the mood for spicy and spooky. Please only send 1-2 numbers per requests

p.s. Werewolf!Cregan x hunter!Reader is already in the work and will be posted at the end of October (probably on the 31st)

‘’There is no trick tonight, only treat.’’ 

‘’I’m not wearing that costume.’’

‘’Is that a knife in your pocket?’’ 

‘’Don’t take off the mask.’’ 

‘’Are you trying to kill me with that costume?’’ 

‘’Did I scare you?’’ 

‘’I don’t bite…unless you’re into that.’’ 

‘’Are you going to stab me with that knife?’’ 

‘’There’s a thousand costume possibilities, why did you have to pick the same as mine?

‘’You’re so loud even the dead can hear you.’’ 

‘’Is this when the boogeyman is supposed to come and kill us?’’ 

‘’I think we’re lost.’’ 

Characters I will be writing for: 

☆ Scream (Ethan, Tara, Billy, Stu, Charlie, Chad and Amber)

☆ Wednesday (Xavier, Ajax and Enid)

☆ House of the Dragon (Jacaerys, Cregan, Benjicot, Aemond and Aegon II)

☆ Tate Langdon

Things I’ve been wanting to write / thing I enjoy writing: 

Succubus. They are fascinating creatures for fics (look it up)

Xavier Thorpe x Vampire!Reader

Horror movie AUs

I miss writing for female characters

Ghost AU where character tries to trick reader into giving her soul to him/her (if you’ve seen Beetlejuice 2, you know what I mean)

Lisa Frankenstein AU where reader make a dead person from another era come back to life 

[thecrackshipdiaries]

Barbie Ferreira and Evan Peters

[habits-white-rabbit]

Tate

✞ 666 ✞

[p1nkm1lkslug]

random vvoice claims hcs for my OCS and creeps ayyayayay:

Samara arche: rue Bennet- euphoria (Zendaya)

Jordan arche: Dinah lance- birds of prey(Jurnee Smollett)

aria arche: Ramona flowers - Scott Pilgrim vs the world ( Mary Elizabeth winstead)

Freddie arche: emerald Haywood - NOPE (Keke Palmer)

Isaac Grossman: Murdoc niccals - Gorillaz ( phill Cornwell)

William Elijah Grossman: Tate Langdon - AHS (Evan Peters)

zero/ Alice Marie Jackson: Lisa Rowe - girl interrupted (Angelina Jolie)

Nina Hopkins: knives chau - Scott Pilgrim vs the world ( ellen Wong)

Dina Angela Clark : Sophie hatter - Howells moving castle (Emily Mortimer)

Jeffery Allan Woods : Charles Lee ray - Child's play ( Brad dourif)

offenderman (being super clear he is NOT a fucked up creep in my au) : shadow man - princess and the frog ( keith David)