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supercap2319 · 2 days ago

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Ben knew it was wrong. He was committing adultery (again). Ephebophilia. Cheating. Whatever label suits your story, Ben Harmon was doing it at this very moment. He tried to fight it. Honest, he did. He learned his lesson after Hayden, but old habits die hard.

He was on the outs with Vivien, and he tried to make it right by moving here to California, but it wasn't good enough. Vivien still couldn't forgive Ben for what he'd done, and Violet was in her own little world to figure out what was going on between her classmate from school, and her father.

What started out as innocent studying between Violet and Y/N, turned into one of those bad gay pornos that you look up on the internet and jerk off too. Ben was ashamed of it, but, God, was it hot.

Ben groans as Y/N had his lips around his hard prick. Tonight was different. Vivien was visiting her sister three hours away, and took Violet along with her, so there would be no interruptions tonight. Y/N was all his.

Ben's fingers tangle in his hair, guiding Y/N's head as he pleasured him. His cock throbs against his tongue, the sensation electric. He leans back against the bathroom counter, exhaling sharply. “Fuck, that feels incredible. You're so good at that.”

Y/N licks underneath Ben's shaft, and swirls his tongue on the head. He looks up at the older man. "I've been practicing at home. Wanted to make it so good for you, Daddy".

Ben's eyes roll back slightly at Y/N's words, his grip on his hair tightening. He lets out a low groan, clearly enjoying the sensation and the sight of Y/N between his legs. “Jesus Christ, that's hot. Keep doing that, baby. You're making Daddy so fucking hard.”

Nodding his head, Y/N gets back to work on Ben's hard cock, bobbing back and forth, coating the dick in saliva. Ben's hips begin to move in rhythm with Y/N's mouth, his breathing becoming more ragged. He looks down at him, his eyes filled with lust and admiration. "Goddamn, you look so sexy with my cock in your mouth. You're such a good little slut for Daddy, aren't you?"

Y/N hums in response as he sucks Ben off like his favorite popsicle. Working the older man over, swirling his tongue on the slit.

Ben's hand suddenly moves from his hair to his own mouth, stifling a loud moan as Y/N hits that perfect spot with his tongue. His balls draw up tight. "Fuck, fuck, I'm gonna... I'm gonna cum down that pretty little throat if you keep that up.”

Hearing those words only spurred Y/N more. He changes his dick sucking rhythm to a faster pace, determined to make Dr. Harmon cum like a fire hose. Ben's warning quickly turns into a strangled moan as Y/N speeds up, his cock pulsing intensely against his tongue. With a shuddering groan, he explodes, spurting thick ropes of cum directly down his eager throat. He leans back on the counter, gasping. "Holy shit.”

Y/N looks up at him and smirks. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he stands up. "Did you like that, Daddy?”

Ben's chest was heaving as he caught his breath. A satisfied smirk plays on his lips. "Like it? Baby, that was fucking incredible. You sucked my cock like a pro." He reaches out. "Come here.” Y/N goes to him. He pulls Y/N close, wrapping his arms around his waist. His face leans down to his, his lips a whisper away from Y/N's. "What am I going to do with you?”

“You could fuck my ass in your bed?” Y/N suggested with a filthy smirk.

Ben's eyebrows raise mischievously, his hands tightening around his waist possessively. "You want that? You want Daddy to bend you over his bed and teach you a lesson?" He growls lowly, his voice dripping with unspent desire.

“Yes, Daddy.”

Ben's smirk turns into a full-blown grin, his eyes darkened with lust. He spins Y/N around and gives his ass a firm smack. "Then get upstairs to my bedroom. Bend over that bed and show Daddy that pretty little ass.”

Both of them head down the hallway to Ben and Vivien's bedroom, unaware that two ghosts named: Patrick and Tate were watching them, noticeable bulges in their pants as they walk down the hall for the second act.

#x male reader #male reader insert #male x male #ahs murder house #american horror story #American Horror Story x male reader #ben harmon #Ben Harmon x male reader #dylan mcdermott #Dylan McDermott x male reader

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rosecoloredsunshine · 23 hours ago

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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.

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tainted-harmon · 2 years ago

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QUESTION:

If you could decorate your room in another movie/tv show character other than Violet Harmon, who would you choose?

My favourite movie room is Bella Swan. I’ve always loved the Twilight movies and LOVE Bella’s bedroom so much. I think there are some subtle similarities to Violets, although different style obviously. I love the colours (this was the other colour I was considering painting my room and I sort of wish I went with the green instead)

I may have to incorporate some of Bella’s style in my bedroom and have a mix of Violet and Bella 💜 💚

#violet harmon #violet harmon exacts #violet harmon style #violet harmon fashion #violet harmon clothes #violet harmon exact #violet harmon cosplay #Bella swan style #Bella swan cosplay #bella swan #bella swan exacts

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fionagoodes-cocaine · 2 years ago

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Mentally I’m in Violet Harmon’s bedroom

#american horror story #ahs #ahs icons #taissa farmiga #evan peters #ahs: murder house #murder house

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b0nesinthegarden · 6 months ago

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I’m about to move into my first apartment (not by myself ofc bc scary but it’s still a big feat) I am going to craft my dream Violet Harmon bedroom so stay tuned

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random-imagines-blog · 2 years ago

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Imagine toying with Ben Harmon one night, and kissing him when he begins doubting your existence.

This was the longest that you had stayed invisible in quite some time. When the Harmons first moved in, you enjoyed toying around with Ben, the handsome patriarch, driving him mad. Making him think he was seeing things. Leading him to places only to disappear. Leaving traces of your perfume and lipstick on his collar for his wife to see. Oh, how fun it all was. But absence makes the heart grow fonder ... and the mind grow weaker. He was losing his belief in you. All the better to shock him with when you re-emerged.

It had been a month and a half and you had been watching him with amusement. He was constantly looking over his shadow. Any little whisper of sound, and he was looking for you. He was beginning to relax, to think that the move had stressed him, the affair, the new pregnancy, it had all just been too much but he was recovering now. He was going to be alright now. He could finally believe in his own eyes again.

Mrs. Harmon was sleeping on the couch. Violet was fooling around with Tate. It was the perfect time. No Moira to interrupt me this time around, to look upon me disapprovingly. I snuck into the bedroom as Ben was getting ready for bed. He’d just brushed his teeth - minty fresh, and was changing into his pajamas - what a cute ass he has.

Wait for it ---

Bam.

As he caught sight of himself in the mirror, you appeared behind him, your face over his shoulder. He turned his head around quickly, nearly giving himself whiplash and found his lips meeting yours. You were kissing him, playfully tasting him, making it feel so real. You were solid, and he was able to touch you, feel you, taste you, to think that maybe he wasn’t going crazy and he just didn’t understand what was going on.

You broke off the kiss, leaving him with mouth agape and eyes wide open. You giggled, and put your finger under his chin, pushing it up so that his jaw closed. “Hello lover - are you ready to feel me?”

Requested by: Anonymous

#Ben Harmon #Ben Harmon x reader #Ben Harmon imagines #American Horror Story #American Horror Story imagines #ben hargreeves #imagines #request #AHS #AHS imagines

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tates-striped-sweater · 2 years ago

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Periods Suck: Violate

Characters: Tate Langdon, Violet Harmon

Relationships: Tate x Violet

Content Warnings: Mentions of blood

Summary: Violet has endometriosis that causes horrible periods and this is the first period that Tate has been around for

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Vi?" Tate called as he walked through the hallway. He heard Violet groan in her bedroom.

He opened the door to find a pile of blankets on the bed that looked like they might possibly have a human under them. He chuckled a little, Violet was always cold

"Hey, I was thinking that maybe we could paint rocks in the yard later" he said as he sat down on the corner of the bed. Violet didn't respond.

"Vi?" He heard a small sniffle under the blanket. He immediately began to panic. She was crying. Had he done something to upset her? He gently pulled the blankets off Violet's face. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her cheeks were stained with tears.

"What's wrong, baby?" He used his thumb to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

"Cramps" she groaned

"Like, stomach cramps?" Tate was concerned that there was something wrong with her. Even through her tears, she was able to roll her eyes.

"Period cramps," she said like it was obvious.

Tate sort of understood. Constance had explained periods to him when Addy had gotten her first one. He knew that they hurt, but not that bad.

"Does it usually hurt you this bad?" Tate asked. Violet's face scrunched for a moment before she was able to answer.

"Yes, it's my endometriosis," she explained. Tate had never heard of that before. He was worried about what that meant, but he decided he'd ask later and try to focus on comforting Violet.

"What can I do for you, baby? Do you need something to eat? Cuddles? I can rub your stomach if you'd like. Have you had any pain meds?" Violet groaned at all of his questions.

"Will you just hold me and rub my stomach?" Violet winced. Tate immediately lifted her body and slid under her. He kissed the top of her head and began rubbing her stomach.

He started telling her stories about the ghosts in the house to keep her distracted until she fell asleep. While she snored, he decided he would get her some stuff

Tate entered the room about twenty minutes later to find Violet awake and crying again.

"What happened, baby? Why are you awake?" Tate asked.

"It hurts Tate, stupid fucking cramps woke me up" she complained.

"You're crying a lot Vi, does it really hurt that bad?" Tate fidgited with his hands while he talked. He was worried about Violet.

"No, the cramps don't hurt as bad right now, but I'm just really emotional and stressed out and I made a fucking mess and I just can't handle it right now" she ranted. Tate grabbed her hands gently.

"What do you mean you made a mess, babe?" He used his sleeve to clean off her face. She seemed hesitant, like she didn't really want to tell him.

"I bled through my pants and now my legs, pants, and sheets are a mess" she cried.

"I'm gonna take care of it Vi, how does a warm bath sound?" She smiled slightly.

"That sounds great, actually," she said.

Tate put his arms under Violet and lifted her gently. Her hands immediately moved down to cover the blood stains on her pants. He kissed her gently and moved her hand away.

"You don't have to hide it, Violet. I'm gonna take care of you, " he whispered.

He had Violet sit on the toilet, and he told her jokes as they waited for the bath to fill. When it was full, he helped Violet out of her clothes and into the bath. He kissed her head gently and turned to leave.

"Where are you going?" Violet asked.

"I'm gonna take your clothes and sheets and clean them up for you. I'll get some new clean clothes and sheets. They'll be ready when you get out of the bath. " Tate answered. Violet smiled.

"Thank you, Tate."

After the bath, Tate brought Violet pajamas and clean underwear. He helped her get dressed and then carried her to her clean bed. They cuddled in bed while Tate brushed her hair. Tate brought the basket of stuff he had gotten up onto the bed.

"What's this?" Violet asked.

"I got you chocolate, Midol, chips, and some water" he said. Violet leaned up and kissed him.

"I love you" She said. Tate smiled.

"I love you too"

#ahs murder house #tate langdon #violet harmon #violate #ahs fanfic #violate fanfic

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