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@pinksilence
✧ welcome. !
[ masterlist ]
about me: hii everyone, you can call me Mari!! I created this account to share some of my writings. English is not my first language, so forgive me if the translation isn't good or doesn't make sense. I hope you like it and enjoy it :))
fandoms: one direction, harry potter, american horror story, percy jackson, the hunger games, marvel, julie and the phantoms, gossip girl, stranger things, it and others !!
Random idea but I was thinking of how would tate feel if the reader gave him a necklace with their blood in it?
blood
tate langdon 𝔁 f!reader, word count 630
summary: you buy a very special gift for your boyfriend.
genre: fluff
warnings: blood (?)
Author's notes: i'm so sorry it took me so long to write something so simple, but I have difficulty writing for Tate😭😭, I hope you like it anyway!!
You were excited to finally get home, because you knew Tate would be waiting for you and you had a special gift for him.
You were practically floating with anticipation on your way home. Your bag bumped against your hip with every hurried step, and inside it, the weight of the small box holding the pendant seemed to pulse, as if it had a life of its own. The idea had come to you on a random night, while watching Tate asleep on your couch—your heart had filled up, and suddenly you wanted to give him something that was only his. Something he could carry forever, even when you weren’t together.
When you opened the door, the familiar smell of the house wrapped around you. And there he was, curled up in the corner of the couch, his eyes locking onto you the second you walked in, like a dog that had been waiting for its owner for hours.
“Hi, love,” his voice came out soft, suspicious of your wide smile. He stood up to hug you.
“Hi, Tate. I need to give you something!”
You slipped out of his arms and he noticed you were more excited than usual. Tate tilted his head, blond curls falling over his forehead, watching you with those big, curious eyes.
With slightly shaky hands, you pulled the little box out of your bag.
“What’s that?” he asked cautiously as he took the box from your hand.
“A present! Open it,” you said, biting your lip, anxious to see if he would like it.
Then he opened it. It was simple: a glass heart-shaped pendant with a thick red liquid inside.
“What is this?” he asked again, but it sounded like he only needed confirmation of what he already suspected.
“My blood,” you answered simply. “A little piece of it, so you’re never alone. So you know I’m yours, even when we’re apart.”
The silence that followed was heavy, electric. Tate didn’t reach out immediately. He just stared at the pendant, at the dark liquid, and then at you. Something shifted in his face—he looked grateful and shocked at the same time, like he couldn’t even imagine someone liking him enough to do something like that.
“You… did this for me?” His voice cracked on the last word. He looked down at your hand and noticed a small scar. How had he not seen it before? “You cut yourself? Did it hurt?”
“A little, but it was worth it.”
Finally, he took the necklace. His fingers trembled when they touched the glass, like he was holding a precious gem.
“No one’s ever given me anything like this,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.
When he lifted his eyes, they were glossy with tears. Tate Langdon, the ghost who haunted the Murder House, the boy who had committed atrocities, was on the verge of crying because you had decided he deserved a piece of you.
“Can you put it on for me?” he asked, turning around and revealing the pale back of his neck.
You clasped the necklace around his neck, feeling his cold skin beneath your fingers. When he turned back around, the pendant rested on his chest, right over his heart. It looked like the missing piece of him. Tate looked down at the symbol of blood against his chest, then back at you.
He pulled you into a hug, and you felt the cold glass of the pendant pressed between you, like a shared heartbeat. You pulled apart quickly and kissed deeply, hands everywhere. When you finally broke the kiss, your foreheads rested together.
“I love you,” he murmured.
“I love you more.”
From that day on, Tate started thinking of every possible way he could repay you in kind.
Hiii! I was wondering if you could do a hurt/comfort oneshot where Kit Walker finally comes back home to reader after Briarcliff but reader can't help but see all of his welts and scars and so she learns everything he went through and comforts him and such, please
thank you, hope you have a nice day :)
helloo, how are you? I have a story very similar to this one on my profile (here), I don't know if it's exactly what you wanted but I hope you like it! If you want something more specific you can send a new request ♡♡
hiii! how are you?
i was wondering if you could do an imagine with luke patterson x reader where he and the reader are going to a concert together / a date (i feels like he would do a picnic date) or something like that and that’s when luke realize how in love he is with us or smth? :)) thank you!!! 🙌
surprise me
luke patterson 𝔁 f!reader, word count 1500
summary: Luke takes you on a date, where he finally realizes how in love he is with you.
genre: fluff!!
warnings: nonee
author's notes: hiiii, first of all, thank you for the request, I loved writing it!! Secondly, I apologize for the delay in posting this, but I've been very busy and also had writer's block. and since you didn't mention anything, I felt free to do pre death luke; I thought it would be cuter this way. i'm sorry if that's not what you wanted (😭) but I hope you like it anyway♡♡ (it hasn't been reviewed yet)
Luke Patterson had always thought he knew what passion was. Passion was the electricity running through his body whenever he picked up a guitar. Passion was the urgency to write a song that burst straight out of his chest. Passion was the frantic drums of a new track, the adrenaline of stepping onto a stage and crashing with his friends after long rehearsals.
At least, that’s what he thought. Until you.
It was one of those generous sunny Saturdays in Los Angeles, the kind that paints the city in golden tones and makes everyone want to get out of the house. Luke had planned everything, which, coming from him, was already a big deal. Alex joked that he must be growing up, and Reggie suggested, with a sly grin, that maybe it was love. Luke rolled his eyes and told them both to shut up, but a goofy smile kept fighting to stay tucked at the corner of his mouth.
The plan was simple: a picnic at a local park overlooking the city, then an intimate show at some random bar where an indie band you once mentioned loving would be playing. It wasn’t a huge stadium, but Luke knew the music was good, and more importantly, he knew you’d love it.
He spent the entire morning putting the basket together. He packed sandwiches he made himself (okay, he tried, they turned out decent), red berries because you once said you liked them, and brownies he bought from that bakery near the studio, the one you were always hyping up. And of course, he didn’t forget the red-and-white checkered blanket. Mandatory for any picnic that wants to feel remotely cinematic.
He rang your doorbell, and when he saw you coming down the stairs, his heart did this jump he hadn’t felt in a long time. You were wearing a light dress, your hair glowing under the sunlight, and the smile you gave him when you spotted him felt like the perfect chord. Suddenly, the entire morning of planning, the teasing from his friends, everything was worth it.
“Hey, you look so…” He lost his words for a second. How could he not? His heart practically stalled just looking at you. He figured he should say something before he completely embarrassed himself. “Perfect.”
You laughed, noticing how nervous he was, it was honestly adorable. But you couldn’t deny your own hands were slightly sweaty just from being alone with him.
“Thanks, Patterson. You look… presentable too.”
He laughed at your teasing, which was clearly just teasing, because he looked more than presentable, and extended his hand in an almost dramatic gesture.
“Ready for the most epic picnic of your life?” he asked, flashing that signature confident smile, though there was something softer in his eyes.
“Only if you promise to surprise me,” you shot back, but you took his hand anyway. He laughed, lifting the basket a little.
“You have my word. It’s gonna be unforgettable.”
The park was buzzing with life. Kids were running around, dogs barking in the distance, couples spreading blankets across the grass. Luke found the perfect spot under a leafy tree, with a clear view of the city skyline. He carefully laid out the blanket.
You sat down, and he joined you, pulling the food out of the basket. It was a pleasant surprise to realize none of it looked store-bought, which meant Luke had actually done it all himself.
As you ate, the conversation flowed easily, like it always did. You laughed at dumb stories, talked about music, about dreams, about everything and nothing at the same time. At one point, you leaned back on the blanket, staring up at the sky, and Luke did the same, except he turned onto his side so he could look at you.
That’s when something shifted.
He noticed how the sunlight filtering through the leaves danced across your face, casting soft shadows. Noticed how your eyes lit up while you pointed at a cloud shaped like something ridiculous. Noticed how easy and genuine your smile was, and how he wanted to be the reason for it forever. The noise of the park seemed to fade; all he could hear was your steady breathing and the rapid beat of his own heart.
“Luke, you’re staring at me,” you said, a smile creeping onto your face.
He looked away way too fast, heat rising up his neck. His hand automatically went to the back of his neck.
“I wasn’t staring,” he protested, though his voice came out weaker than he meant it to. “I was… appreciating the view.”
“Oh, so I’m the view now?” you teased, turning to face him, your eyes sparkling.
Luke bit his lower lip, a lazy smile spreading across his face. He knew he’d lost this one. “Okay, maybe I was staring. But you can’t blame me. Just look at you.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the silly grin that appeared anyway. “Luke Patterson, king of cheesy lines, huh?”
“What can I say? I’m a songwriter.”
You couldn’t help it, you laughed.
“Speaking of that, we gotta go!” he said, sitting up and offering his hand to help you up.
“Go where?”
“You’ll see. It’s a surprise.”
You were slightly suspicious, but you trusted Luke. He wouldn’t take you anywhere you wouldn’t like. So you just followed him as he walked through the city under that stunning sunset.
After a while, you finally arrived. The bar was small, dimly lit, with that faint smell of beer in the air. The band was already on stage when you walked in, and Luke felt that familiar itch in his fingers, the urge to grab a guitar and jump in. But instead, he focused on you, who were grinning from ear to ear.
“Luke, you cannot be serious! How did you know I like this band? And how did you know they’d be here tonight?” you asked, buzzing with excitement.
“A magician never reveals his tricks. I told you I’d surprise you.” He gave you that sarcastic little grin.
“Okay, Patterson, I seriously underestimated you.”
The show went on, and it was amazing. Luke didn’t know any of the songs playing, but he knew how to vibe to good music, so he wasn’t bored for a second. Especially with you right there next to him. He watched you nod your head to the rhythm, your eyes closing for a moment as you let yourself get carried away. He saw you softly sing along to the lyrics you knew and, every now and then, glance at him with a conspiratorial smile.
When the last song ended and applause filled the small space, Luke felt a flicker of disappointment. Not because of the show, it had been great, but because he knew the night was winding down. He looked at you, still clapping enthusiastically, your eyes shining under the low lights.
“Did you like it?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.
You turned to him, and the smile you gave him was so wide and sincere that his chest tightened. “Luke, it was perfect. Seriously. I wasn’t expecting this at all.”
He smiled back, softer than usual, different from his typical irreverent vibe. “Then mission accomplished.”
You stepped out of the bar, and the Los Angeles night greeted you with a warm breeze and the distant hum of the city. The streets were quieter now, lit by streetlamps and neon signs from the few places still open. Luke walked beside you, your shoulders almost brushing, wrapped in that comfortable silence that only existed between the two of you.
“Thank you for today,” you said quietly as you walked. “Really. I can’t remember the last time someone did something this special for me.”
Luke stopped. You stopped too, confused, and turned to face him. He was looking at you like before, but this time, he didn’t rush to look away. The street was nearly empty, the only sounds a distant car and your own breathing.
“You deserve special things,” he said, his voice more serious than you were used to. “And I want to be the one who does those things for you. If you’ll let me.”
Your heart started racing. The way he was looking at you, the streetlight casting shadows across his face, the fact that he was standing there, so close, so open, made the air feel heavy with anticipation.
“Luke…” you started, but he stepped closer, closing the distance even more.
He hesitated for a second, his eyes searching yours for permission, for any sign he wasn’t about to mess this up. Then, slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted, he lifted his hand and touched your face with a gentleness that clashed with all the restless energy he carried.
He smiled, small and almost relieved, then tilted his head. When your lips finally met, it felt like the whole world disappeared. The kiss was sweet at first, hesitant, like you were both testing the edges of this new territory. But then you deepened it, your hand sliding to the back of his neck, and Luke answered with a soft urgency, pulling you closer like he wanted to lock that moment in forever.
When you pulled apart, his forehead still resting against yours, Luke let out a quiet laugh, half dazed, half in disbelief.
“Wow,” he murmured. “I should’ve done that a long time ago.”
You laughed too, still dizzy, still tasting him on your lips. “Yeah, Patterson. You took your time.”
He pretended to look offended, but the smile lighting up his face was anything but. Then he pulled you in for another kiss.
Jimmy crying, for @evanaddict ♡
Girl! Girl! Girl! Hear me out: what about a oneshot of Kit finally coming back home to reader after being released from Briarcliff? The desperate longing, the sweet relief, the worry becoming too obvious in reader's eyes when she sees all of Kit’s bruises and injuries, the love that vows to grow even stronger... arghhhhh too many possibilities! <3333
waiting: part two
kit walker 𝔁 f!reader, word count 1900
summary: after so long trapped and suffering in Briarcliff, Kit finally returns home.
genre: flufff
warnings: nonee
author's notes: I don't know if you meant it to be a continuation of that other story, but I was already planning to post a part two with the same premise. I hope you enjoy it. ♡♡ (and I also wanted to say that Kit reminds me of the song Would Fall In Love With Me Again from the musical Epic)
( ✧ requests open ✧ )
Christmas of 1966 arrives with a different kind of silence. It’s no longer the empty, agonizing silence of previous years, but a heavy one. The house is decorated, though with less fervor. The lights blink, the turkey is in the oven. The children, older now, exchange hopeful looks that you avoid holding for too long.
Kit’s letters stopped coming over time, so you didn’t allow hope to grow.
The day drags on. At lunch, which is no longer as silent as in years past, you catch yourself staring at the empty chair he always used. Over time, all of you had to learn how to live with his absence and make that the new normal, even though it hurt.
When night falls and the first stars appear in the colored sky, acceptance begins to settle in. It’s like the other Christmases, you think. You’ll survive. You always do.
Then there’s a knock at the door.
It’s not loud. It’s hesitant, but in the quiet of the house, it sounds like thunder.
Your heart stops. The children, however, don’t even seem to notice, too busy with the presents.
You stand and walk to the door, hesitant. You open it.
The icy air cuts across your face, but you don’t even feel it. Because there, on the porch, wrapped in a thin layer of snow and wearing a coat far too light for winter, is him.
Kit.
He’s thinner—much thinner. His brown hair is a bit longer now. He’s holding a small white box with the few belongings he has. His brown eyes are the same, with those golden flecks, but now they’re ringed by purple shadows of exhaustion. A poorly healed cut splits his left eyebrow and his upper lip, and you don’t need much imagination to see the yellowed bruises along his temples, his jaw, trailing down his neck.
He stands there, looking at you as if you were a mirage. His lips are slightly parted, trembling—from the cold, from emotion.
“Kit?” you whisper, the word coming out broken, hoarse with shock.
He blinks rapidly, as if waking up. A shaky breath escapes him, forming a white cloud in the air between you.
“I… they released me. Today. So I… I ran to the station, took the first train, then the bus, and…” He rambles, lost, his eyes tracing your face, but you don’t listen. You just throw yourself into his arms.
His skin is cold, rough. He shudders at your touch, a low moan slipping from his throat. He doesn’t wait a second to return the hug, letting the box fall to the ground.
He holds you tightly, as if afraid that if he loosens his grip for even a second, you’ll disappear. His arms tremble around you. Then you kiss him desperately, as if that kiss could fill all the lost time.
“It’s you,” you murmur as you pull back, your own tears already running hot down your face. “My God, it’s you.”
“I promised you,” he whispers, the words sticking to your fingers. “I promised I’d come back.”
From inside the house, small gasps are heard. You both turn toward the door. The children are there, standing in the hallway, staring with a mix of shock and joy. For a moment, no one moves. Then the youngest—who had only a few memories of him, since she was just two when he left—takes a step forward. And then another. She stops in front of him, her big eyes scanning the thin man who has knelt down in front of her.
“Daddy?” Her voice is a thin thread of sound.
Kit closes his eyes, holding back tears, a tremor running through his entire body.
“Yes, sweetheart. It’s me.”
Then she throws herself into his arms. The impact nearly knocks him over, but he wraps himself around her, burying his face in her small neck, his shoulders shaking in silence. The older brother follows, more hesitant, but when Kit extends an arm, he clings to it, his serious face hidden against his father’s shoulder.
You kneel beside them, wrapping all of them in your arms. It’s a tangle of trembling bodies, warm tears, and soft breaths.
Finally, you guide them inside, into the warmth. Kit stands in the middle of the living room, looking around like a man who has returned to a familiar planet that somehow feels strange. His eyes travel over the tree, the couch, the photos on the wall—the life that went on without him. There’s pain in that look, but also immense wonder.
You stay there on the living room floor for what feels like forever. Kit doesn’t let go of the children, as if making up for every lost second. His thick, calloused fingers—God, how calloused they are—stroke their hair with a gentleness that breaks your heart.
The oldest, now seven, pulls back a little, wiping his nose on his sleeve, but his eyes never leave his father. “You’re hurt,” he says softly, pointing at the cut on Kit’s lip.
Kit smiles, but it’s a weak smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Just a few scratches, son. Nothing that won’t heal.” He tries to sound casual, but you see the truth behind it: the way he moves slowly, as if every muscle aches, the way he avoids putting weight on one leg. You help him stand, and when your hand slips under his coat, you feel his ribs jutting beneath the thin shirt. He’s so thin. Your stomach twists with a wave of worry you can no longer hold back.
“Come on, let’s warm you up,” you say, guiding him to the couch. The children curl up beside him like little puppies starving for attention, telling him about the years he missed—the school, the friends, the Christmases without him. Kit listens, eyes shining with unshed tears, nodding and chuckling softly at the right moments. But you notice how he flinches slightly when the youngest jumps into his lap, and that sets off an alarm inside you.
Later, after the children go to sleep with smiles on their faces, you take him to the bedroom and sit him on the bed.
You help him remove the thin coat, which looks more like a rag than protection against the merciless cold. Your hands tremble as you undo the buttons, and when the garment falls to the floor, you let out an involuntary breath.
He has several bruises scattered across his torso, like smears of purple and yellow paint, marking ribs that stand out too sharply beneath pale skin. There are fresh scars—a long, jagged one on his right shoulder, another smaller one on his abdomen, as if someone had driven something sharp into him. He’s almost skeletal.
“Kit…” you murmur, your voice breaking as your fingers lightly trace one of the marks, careful not to press. He shivers at the touch but doesn’t pull away.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, trying for a smile that comes out crooked because of the cut on his lip. But his eyes give everything away: the deep exhaustion, the weight of memories he’s not ready to share. You feel a tear slide down your face, hot and salty, and he wipes it away with his calloused thumb.
“You’re lying,” you reply, your concern spilling over now, impossible to contain. “Look at you… all beaten up. What did they do to you in there?” Your voice trembles as you sit beside him on the bed, pulling him closer, as if you could shield him.
He lowers his head, his shoulders caving in as if the weight of the world were crushing him.
“It doesn’t matter, my love. It doesn’t matter anymore.” He pauses, swallowing hard, and you see the tremor in his hands. “I endured it all. For you. For the kids. I thought about you every night, imagined this moment. That’s what kept me alive. And it worked.”
His words cut into you, a mix of sweet relief and sharp pain. He’s here, alive, in your arms. You pull him into a tighter hug, ignoring the low groan that escapes him when you press against one of his injured ribs.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, loosening your grip, but he shakes his head.
“It’s okay.” His lips find yours again, this time slower, deeper, as if every kiss were a renewed promise. There’s desperation in it, a hunger built over years apart, but also a tenderness that makes your heart swell. Your hands roam his back, finding more scars. Tears mix into the kisses—yours and his—and when you pull away, breathless, he rests his forehead against yours.
“I love you so much,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. “More than before, if that’s even possible. These years… they made me see how strong you are. I swear, I’ll make up for everything. I’ll be the husband you deserve, the father the kids need.”
You nod, wiping his tears away with soft kisses, tracing the cut in his eyebrow with your lips. “We’re going to heal you. I’ll take care of every bruise, every wound. Nothing will ever separate us again.” Your words come out like a vow, sealed in the quiet of the bedroom, lit only by the dim glow of the bedside lamp.
You rise from the bed reluctantly, your legs still shaky with emotion, and hurry to the kitchen, the cold floor beneath your bare feet contrasting with the warmth radiating from your chest. You grab a clean cloth, a bowl of warm water, and some antiseptic you keep in the cabinet—things that in recent years were used to heal scraped knees, never something like this.
Your heart pounds as you return to the bedroom, your eyes fixed on Kit, who remains seated on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, breathing slowly as if each breath hurts.
As you approach, you kneel in front of him, dipping the cloth into the water and gently pressing it against the cut on his eyebrow. He flinches, a low groan slipping from his cracked lips, but instead of pulling away, he leans forward, brown eyes locked on yours, filled with a gratitude that needs no words.
For him, that pain is almost welcome—a tangible reminder that he’s alive, that he’s home, where wounds are cared for by loving hands instead of inflicted by cruelty.
“Shh, it’ll pass,” you whisper, your voice soft like a lullaby, as you clean away dried blood and scabs, revealing the red, swollen skin underneath.
Between one wound and another, you can’t resist: you lean in to kiss him—first on the forehead, then at the corner of his mouth, avoiding the cut on his lip. He responds with a shaky sigh, his calloused hands rising to frame your face, fingers tracing your cheek as if you were something precious, fragile. Care and affection intertwine—a kiss here, a touch there—turning the act of healing into something intimate, almost sacred.
He groans again when you pass the cloth over a bruise on his shoulder, but the sound dissolves into a low, rough laugh, the first real laugh you’ve heard from him in years. “This is heaven compared to what I went through,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours, and you taste the salt of tears mixed into the kiss.
Finally, after cleaning every visible bruise and bandaging what needs bandaging, you finish with one last lingering kiss.
Then you lie down together, tangled beneath the warm blankets, his body fitting against yours as if he had never left. He falls asleep first, his uneven breathing slowly calming into the rhythm of your heart. You stay awake a little longer, your fingers intertwined with his.
guyss, i'm so sorry for taking so long to post your requests 😭 but since there are quite a few, I'm taking a little longer. besides that, I was traveling, didn't have time to write, and had writer's block. but I promise I'll write all the requests as soon as possible!!
pre death kyle my babyyy
Your frankenKyle is perfection. You DO know how to write him, probably better than I’ve ever seen on this site and I love you for it.
If I could request anything, it would be more frankenKyle figuring simple things out, maybe opening his gifts Christmas morning or getting overstimulated at New Year’s!! Much love and thanks for your wonderful work 🖤
fireworks
fraken-kyle 𝔁 f!reader, word count 1130
summary: it's New Year's Eve and your zombie boyfriend doesn't really like fireworks, but that's okay because you're there to calm him down.
genre: fluff
warnings: nonee
author's notes: hiii, I'm a little late posting a New Year's story, but I hope you like it anyway!! thank you for the compliment and for the request ♡♡ (It hasn't been revised yet)
( ✧ requests open ✧ )
You look at yourself in the bedroom mirror, the reflection showing a version of you that feels more alive than ever, despite everything that’s happened. It’s New Year’s Eve, and the air outside already carries that familiar electric buzz—fireworks popping in the distance, laughter echoing through the streets of New Orleans, the smell of food and champagne drifting on the wind. Inside the witches’ house, it’s festive chaos; the girls are getting ready, swapping sparkly dresses and piling on over-the-top makeup.
You choose a long, simple dress with a hint of shimmer in the skirt—something that makes you feel effortlessly elegant. Kyle is there, in the corner of the room, sitting on the messy bed, watching you with those big, confused eyes he’s had ever since he came back.
He murmurs something under his breath, a guttural sound that almost comes out as “Good…,” but it’s tangled up, like words still feel foreign in his mouth. You smile at him, turning slowly.
“What do you think, Ky? Does it look good?”
He tilts his head, like a dog trying to understand a new command, and clumsily gets to his feet. His steps are heavy, but there’s a softness to them as he approaches. He’s been so needy lately—always glued to you, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.
His big hands, marked with those rough stitches, touch the fabric of your dress, exploring the texture with childlike curiosity. He murmurs again, a broken “pre… tty,” clumsy but clear enough. Pretty. He thinks it’s pretty. Your heart tightens a little; it’s sweet and sad at the same time, watching him struggle to express himself.
You decide to help him get ready too.
“Thank you, my love. Come here—let’s get you ready for the party.”
He follows you obediently to the closet, where you grab a clean white shirt and dark pants—nothing too flashy, because you know he gets overwhelmed easily.
As you button his shirt, he stays still, breathing slowly, his eyes locked on your face. Your fingers brush his skin by accident, and he lets out a low murmur, almost like a purr, leaning closer. Affectionate as ever, he presses his body against yours, like he wants to merge into you, and you let out a quiet laugh.
Downstairs, the house is buzzing. Madison is sprawled on the couch, drinking something strong and trash-talking Nan’s dress, which Nan ignores. Queenie cranks up the music—a pop-and-jazz mix that makes the walls vibrate. The New Year’s vibe is everywhere: silver balloons hanging from the ceiling, champagne flutes lined up on the table, and an old clock ticking down the minutes to midnight. You head down the stairs with Kyle at your side, his hand gripping yours tightly.
You guide him to the couch, where he sits pressed up against you. He’s big, awkward, but there’s a vulnerability about him that makes you want to protect him from everything. The girls notice, of course; Madison rolls her eyes and throws out a sarcastic comment about “the pet monster,” but you ignore her. Kyle murmurs a soft “no…” under his breath, like he half-understood the joke, and you stroke his hair to calm him.
You snack on little things—cheeses, grapes, light bites Cordelia prepared with a touch of magic for good luck in the new year. Kyle tries to eat on his own but ends up dropping a plate, mumbling a broken “s-sorry” that comes out more like a grunt. He looks at you with guilty eyes, and you clean up the mess, saying, “It’s okay, love. Everyone drops things.” He nestles closer, his arms wrapping around your waist, clingy to the point of almost suffocating—but you don’t mind. It’s comforting.
As the night goes on, Cordelia announces it’s time to head to the backyard—the best spot in the house to watch the fireworks that will light up the New Orleans sky at midnight. You take Kyle’s hand, lacing your fingers with his, and lead him outside.
The night air is cool, heavy with the scent of jasmine and distant gunpowder. The sky above already flickers with a few scattered fireworks—warm-ups for the real show to come.
Kyle squeezes your hand tighter when you reach the garden. He wraps his arms around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder, like he’s trying to protect you from the whole world—or maybe it’s you protecting him.
When the clock strikes midnight somewhere far away, the sky explodes.
The first firework shoots up with a sharp whistle and bursts into a golden cascade that lights everything up. The boom is deafening. Kyle jerks violently behind you, his whole body going stiff. He lets out a scared, low whine, almost a whimper, his hands trembling against your stomach.
You turn your head, kissing his temple gently, one hand coming up to stroke his messy blond hair.
“Shh, it’s okay, Ky. Look at me,” you whisper, calm, covering his hands with yours. “It’s just fireworks, love. They’re pretty. They won’t hurt you, even if they’re loud.”
He takes a deep, shaky breath, still clinging to you like a frightened animal. You can feel his heart racing against your back. Slowly, he lifts his head, peeking over your shoulder.
Another firework shoots up—this one bursts into red and blue flowers spreading out like slow-falling stars. The noise is loud again, and he flinches a little, but not as badly as before. You tighten his arms around you, gently guiding his gaze to the sky.
“Look… look how it shines. It’s to celebrate, Ky. New year. New things. Good things.”
He goes quiet for a moment, eyes wide, reflecting the colorful lights.
Another boom, another small jump—but this time he doesn’t hide. Instead, he lifts one hand—still holding yours—and points up at the sky, amazed.
“Colors…” he manages to say, his voice rough and low, almost lost under the fireworks.
You smile, turning just enough to kiss his cheek.
“Yeah, colors. Like you said about my makeup.”
He lets out a sound that’s almost a laugh—short, awkward, but real—and rests his forehead against yours. The fireworks keep exploding above you, painting the sky gold, purple, green, silver. With every loud bang, he still flinches a little, squeezes you tighter, but then relaxes again, eyes glued to the lights, fascinated like a kid seeing it all for the first time.
At one point, he murmurs right by your ear, the words slow and careful:
“I love you.”
Your heart melts. You turn fully toward him, ignoring the fireworks for a second, and kiss him softly on the lips—gentle, lingering, full of everything you can’t put into words.
“I love you, my love. Happy New Year.”
He smiles—a crooked, childlike smile, but so sincere—and turns back to the sky, still holding you tight, like he never plans to let go.
Happy New Year my loves, I hope you have an amazing year and that you achieve everything you wish for!! (btw I haven't posted these past few days because of the New Year, but I promise I'll be back)
christmas dance
james p. march 𝔁 f!reader, word count 2100
summary: your boyfriend is preparing a christmas ball at the Hotel Cortez.
genre: fluff
warnings: mention of murder
author's notes: hii guyss, this is the last one-shot of christmas week and I hope you liked it!! (not revised)
( ✧ requests open ✧ )
You wake to the gray light of dawn seeping through the heavy curtains of your room at the Hotel Cortez. The air is thick with that unmistakable scent of the place — old wood, distant tobacco, and, of course, James’s cologne. Your eyes, still heavy with sleep, settle on the dark velvet armchair in the corner of the room.
There’s a box there. Large, black, wrapped with a burgundy satin ribbon. It wasn’t there the night before.
You get up slowly, bare feet meeting the cold Persian rug. When you open the box, you find a dress.
It’s black with deep dark-green undertones, almost pitch-black under certain lights. A fitted bodice, a long skirt with layers. Long sleeves of delicate lace, cuffs fastened with onyx buttons. The neckline is modest, but the way the fabric clings to your body is indecently perfect.
Beneath the dress, carefully folded, there’s a note. The handwriting is slanted, elegant, with firm strokes that look like they were written with a real fountain pen.
"My dear,
Christmas at the Cortez has never looked so promising.
Tonight, at precisely ten o’clock, the main ballroom will welcome its usual guests.
I would very much like you to be the center of it all.
The dress is yours. As is the night, should you wish it.
With the deepest admiration,
James Patrick March"
You read it three times. With each reading, his voice seems closer, as if he’s standing right behind you, breathing against your neck.
The dress fits as though it had been sewn directly onto your body while you slept. You look at yourself in the gilded mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back — wide eyes, dressed like a Victorian widow who decided to live forever. Stunning.
You know who will be downstairs. You know the kind of beings who attend March’s balls — the dead who don’t know they’re dead, the living who wish they were, all of them elegantly dangerous. But you also know, with a certainty that warms your chest, that nothing — absolutely nothing — will touch you without his permission.
At ten o’clock sharp, you descend the grand staircase.
The hotel is unrecognizable and, at the same time, more itself than ever. Chandeliers glow in red and gold light, reflections dancing on the walls like warm blood. The orchestra plays a slow, almost funereal jazz, from an era you only know through old films.
Then you step inside. And you feel his gaze before you see him.
James Patrick March is leaning against a pillar, dressed in an impeccable tuxedo, black bow tie, hair slicked back with pomade. His dark eyes are locked on you as if the rest of the ballroom has ceased to exist. He doesn’t smile — not exactly. It’s something subtler, the faintest curve of his lips that says you’ve just fulfilled a desire he’s been nursing for months.
He walks toward you slowly, as if he has all the time in the world (and he does). Guests part without realizing they’re doing it. When he reaches you, he takes your hand with a gentleness that clashes with everything you know about him.
He kisses your knuckles, lingering just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his mouth through the lace of your gloves.
“Exactly as I imagined,” he murmurs, his voice low, velvety, that old-fashioned accent making every word sound like a promise. “Perhaps even better.”
He guides you to the center of the room. The music shifts — as if the orchestra received an invisible cue — into a slow waltz.
You dance.
His hand on your waist is firm, but never tight. He leads you with a precision that makes it seem as though the floor itself was made for the two of you. He spins you slowly. You feel every gaze in the room — curious, envious, mesmerized — but none dare come too close.
He tilts his head, leaning in just enough for you to feel the subtle warmth of his body — a warmth that shouldn’t exist in someone who hasn’t breathed in a very long time.
“You’re radiant,” he murmurs, so softly only you can hear, even with the orchestra around you. “Like one of those visions that makes any man forget his own name.”
You laugh, a short, almost nervous laugh, but it comes out more confident than you expected.
“Have you always been so dramatic with compliments, James?”
He raises an eyebrow, feigning surprise.
“Dramatic? My dear, I’m known for my precision.” His hand tightens slightly at your waist, just enough to remind you he could tighten it much more if he wished. “But I admit that with you, words feel… insufficient.”
You spin once more. The skirt of your dress brushes his legs, the fabric whispering like a secret.
“Why me?” you ask, bluntly. The question has been lodged in your throat for a while. “You could have anyone here. Dead, eternal. Why me?”
He lifts your hand, still laced with his, and brings it to his lips again. This time, the kiss lingers.
“Ah…” he murmurs, his voice low, smooth, carrying that drawn-out accent that always seems to hide a polite threat. “Finally, the right question. The dead… oh, they’re predictable. Eternal, yes. But hollow. Trapped in what they once were. None of them challenge me.”
His eyes travel over you, unhurried, as if he’s reading something only he understands.
“You look at me and you don’t kneel. You don’t tremble. You don’t try to please me.”
He releases your hand slowly but doesn’t step back. Instead, his fingers rise to your face, tracing the line of your jaw with a delicacy that makes your skin burn.
“And because, for the first time in decades, I desired something that had nothing to do with blood,” he continues, his eyes darkening. “I desired you. Whole. No knives. No screams. Just happiness.”
His fingers stop just beneath your chin, lifting it slightly, forcing your eyes to meet his. There’s something there — a vulnerability he hides as well as he hides bodies in the walls of the Cortez.
“Happiness,” he repeats, as if tasting the word for the first time in a century. “Such a curious concept for someone like me.”
The orchestra ends the waltz on a long note, and the room applauds absently. But the two of you remain in the center, unmoving.
James tilts his head, studying you.
“Come,” he says simply, offering his arm.
You take it. He leads you out of the ballroom, through corridors that seem longer at night, lit only by flickering lamps. None of the other guests follow. No one would dare.
You stop at room 64. He closes the door behind you. The click of the lock is soft, final.
“I didn’t bring you here to seduce you,” he says, with a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Though I admit the thought crossed my mind more times than would be polite to confess.”
James stops in front of the cold fireplace, his back to you for a moment. Hands clasped behind him, posture immaculate, as always. You realize he’s hesitating. It’s not something you’ve ever seen from him before.
When he turns around, his eyes are darker than ever — but not with desire. It’s something deeper, older.
“I built this hotel to be a temple,” he begins, his voice low, almost reflective. “A place where death would be art. Where I could be eternal, untouchable, absolute.”
He takes a step toward you. Slowly.
“And for nearly a century, that was enough.”
Another step.
“Until you arrived.”
He stops in front of you. Close enough for you to notice every detail: the fine lines around his eyes, the way the dim lamp light reflects off his perfectly combed hair, the slightest tension in his shoulders that no one else would notice.
James takes your left hand in both of his. This time, he doesn’t kiss your fingers. He simply holds it, as if it were something fragile that could vanish.
He lowers his gaze to your joined hands, and for a moment he looks almost human — hesitant, exposed, as if he’s about to commit the greatest crime of all: vulnerability.
“I’ve killed out of whim, out of boredom, out of art. I killed because I could. And never, in all this time, did I feel the slightest weight.”
He looks up at you. There’s no murderous glint in his eyes now, none of the sadistic delight you’ve seen before. There’s something else. Something that looks like it hurts.
“But you… you make me feel weight. A sweet weight. A weight I don’t want to set down.”
James releases one of your hands only to slip the other into the inner pocket of his jacket. He pulls out a small black velvet box, so old the fabric seems to have absorbed centuries of secrets. He opens it slowly.
Inside, resting on faded satin, is a ring.
Dark gold, almost bronze, with a central black stone — pure onyx, cut in a diamond shape.
He lifts the ring between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up to the dim light.
He kneels.
Slowly. Elegantly. As if performing a ritual he’s rehearsed a thousand times in his mind, but never truly believed would happen.
Kneeling before you, still holding your left hand, he raises the ring.
“My dear, I have no soul to offer. I have no future beyond these walls. I cannot promise you a family. I have no redemption, no salvation.”
He takes a breath — unnecessary, but deliberate, marking the moment.
“But I promise to be yours. Entirely. Forever. In calm nights and bloody ones. In the light and in the darkness I created myself.”
James lifts the ring until it almost touches your ring finger.
“Marry me. Be my wife. My queen. My only masterpiece.”
The silence that follows his words is so complete you can almost hear dust settling in the ancient beams of the Cortez.
Your eyes are locked on his. James Patrick March, kneeling, holding that ring as if it were the most sacred thing his bloodstained hands have ever touched.
And then, without overthinking, without letting reason scream louder than your heart, you speak.
“Yes.”
The word comes out soft, steady, almost a whisper — but it’s enough.
For a moment, he doesn’t move. As if he can’t believe what he heard. His dark eyes blink once.
Then, slowly, he slides the ring onto your left ring finger.
The metal is cold, heavy, perfect. It fits as if it had always belonged there.
James stands without releasing your hand. He pulls you to him — not roughly, but with contained urgency — and rests his forehead against yours. His lips brush yours without truly kissing, just hovering there, sharing the same air you breathe, even though he doesn’t need to.
“My wife,” he murmurs against your mouth, as if testing the sound of the word for the first time.
Then he finally kisses you. His hands rise to your face, holding it with excessive care, as if afraid he might break it.
You spend the rest of the night in room 64 — not in haste, not in violence. Just together. He removes his jacket and bow tie but keeps the pristine white shirt on. You stay in the dress, because he asks, softly: “Let me see you like this a little longer. My fiancée. My wife.”
He lays you down on the massive dark-canopied bed and lies beside you, just watching. Tracing the outline of your face with his fingertips, as if memorizing it. Speaking quietly about plans: a ceremony in the main ballroom, with all the ghosts as witnesses; an eternity meant only for the two of you.
You laugh at times. At others, you simply listen, feeling the weight of the ring on your finger and the impossible warmth of his body against yours.
Much later, when the gray light of dawn begins to seep through the heavy curtains once again, you’re lying on your side with your head on his chest. He strokes your hair slowly, in silence.
You look at the ring. At the room. At the man who is now your husband.
You don’t know if it was a good idea — a human marrying a sadistic ghost, the greatest serial killer the Cortez ever housed, someone who built death labyrinths purely for aesthetic pleasure.
You don’t know if you’ll regret it, if one day you’ll want to run, if eternity with him will be paradise or a prison.
But in that moment, wrapped in the dress he chose, his scent soaked into your skin…
In that moment, it was everything you wanted.
Oh to be a girl in the 80s waiting for her boyfriend to climb through her window is my dream
jimmy darling coded
lights
jimmy darling 𝔁 f!reader, word count 1100
summary: you and your boyfriend, Jimmy, go to the city to see the christmas lights.
genre: fluff
warnings: nonee
Author's notes: Merry Christmas everybody!! I hope you all have a wonderful day ♡ (not reviewed)
( ✧ requests open ✧ )
You walk across the circus grounds beneath a gray winter sky, the cold air heavy with the smell of damp sawdust, burnt popcorn, and the faint stench of caged animals. The place is livelier than usual—lights flickering on the booths, laughter echoing from performers rehearsing extra acts for the holidays, kids running between the tents with makeshift balloons. But you don’t pay attention to any of that. Your eyes are searching for just one person: Jimmy Darling, leaning against the side of his trailer.
You planned this days ago. “Let’s go into town to see the Christmas lights,” you said, and he replied with that crooked half-smile of his, “If you insist, doll.” You walk up to him, and he crushes his cigarette into the dirt with his boot, lifting his gaze. His brown eyes are softer today, but there’s still a shadow in them, like always.
“Ready?” he asks, kissing your forehead and holding out his hand. You nod, slipping your hand into his. The circus fades behind you as you take off on his motorcycle toward town.
Arriving downtown feels like stepping into another world. The main streets are decorated with multicolored lights hanging from lampposts, reflected in shop windows packed with decorations—Christmas trees, smiling snowmen, red and gold wreaths. The air smells like cinnamon and burnt sugar from candy stalls—roasted chestnuts, cotton candy, steaming hot chocolate. Couples walk arm in arm, families laughing loudly, kids pointing at the lively displays.
But Jimmy isn’t relaxed. You feel it before you even really notice it. He shoves his hands—bare, without the gloves he lost—into the pockets of his worn leather jacket, shoulders hunched forward, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. That defensive posture you know so well. He didn’t use to be this insecure, but recent events made him pull back.
He notices the looks before you do—he always does. A couple passes by; the woman quickly turns her face away, the man mutters something under his breath. A child points subtly, and the mother hurriedly pulls the kid’s hand down. Jimmy lowers his head, jaw clenched.
You walk in silence for a while, pretending to admire the shop windows. He tries to comment on a funny decoration—a mechanical Santa waving—but his voice sounds forced. Then he suddenly stops in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, people dodging around you.
“This was a mistake,” he says quietly, sharp, eyes fixed on the ground. His voice is loaded with contained anger—not at you, but at the whole damn world. “I told you it was gonna be like this.”
Your chest tightens. You know exactly what he means. Of course people would stare, but you didn’t bring him here to make him feel ashamed—you brought him so he could feel like he belongs. You wanted to show him he isn’t any less human just because of his hands.
“Jimmy…” you say, firm.
“No point pretending you don’t see it,” he cuts in before you can continue. “You should be here with someone normal, not with me, being a horror show for kids.”
You step closer and gently hold his face, forcing him to look at you. His brown eyes are shining with anger and shame.
“Cut it out. You’re not a freak show and you know that. Don’t let them mess with your head like this. And I’m not here out of pity, or trying to be brave. I’m here because I want to be. Because I chose you. Because I love you.”
“You don’t get it,” he murmurs. “You’re so pretty and normal. And me… they look at me like I’m—”
“A monster?” you finish, without flinching at the word. “I know. I see how they look at you.”
He freezes.
“But you know what else I see?” you continue. “A guy who holds the door open for everyone. Who goes hungry to make sure his mom eats. Who tries to smile even when the world spits in his face.”
Jimmy clenches his fists inside his pockets.
“That doesn’t change anything,” he mutters.
“It changes everything to me.”
You let go of his face, but you take one of his hands.
“Look around,” you say. “Everyone here is way too busy pretending to be happy to really pay attention to us. And honestly? I think we’re happier than they are, because we don’t have to fake it. They don’t matter,” you add. “I do. You do.”
Jimmy lets out a short, bitter laugh.
“You’re stubborn as hell.”
And then you keep walking, hand in hand. You pull him into an old record store you spotted earlier.
The door bell jingles, and the owner—an older man with a white beard and crooked glasses—looks up from behind the counter, gives a small nod, and goes back to sorting record sleeves. Inside, it’s quieter. The air smells like old vinyl and polished wood. The lighting is warm and yellow, and the shelves full of colorful albums feel like a safe haven.
Jimmy visibly relaxes. He runs his fingers over the covers, stopping at an Elvis record he knows by heart. You see the corner of his mouth lift into a genuine smile for the first time that night.
“My mom used to sing this to calm me down when I was a kid,” he says.
You laugh softly, finding it adorable.
“Then I guess we should steal this record to relive the good old days.”
He turns to you, eyebrow raised.
“Steal? Wow. Look who’s corrupting who now.”
You stay there for a while, flipping through records, laughing at ridiculous 1950s album covers, him imitating old singers’ voices until you’re almost crying with laughter. When you leave, his cheeks are flushed—not just from the cold.
Your next stop is away from the busy center, down a side street that leads to a small hill on the edge of town. From there, you can see everything: the blinking lights, the crowd gathered in the main square. You sit on the cold grass, leaning into each other to stay warm. From a distance, you can see kids slipping and falling, parents trying to help them up, Christmas music playing from a slightly crackly loudspeaker. You just watch from afar.
“It’s not that bad, right?” you ask softly.
He stays quiet for a second, looking at the lights reflecting on the horizon.
“With you by my side… no. It’s not bad.”
The sky is fully dark when the fireworks announcement starts playing over the loudspeakers in the main square. Then the fireworks begin. The first boom echoes, and the sky lights up with explosions of red, green, gold—artificial stars drifting down slowly. Each blast lights up Jimmy’s face beside you: wide eyes, the smile he tries to hide. He takes your hand again, squeezing it tight.
“This is… pretty as hell,” he whispers, letting out a soft laugh. “Guess it was worth it.”
You laugh too, resting your head on his shoulder. The fireworks keep going, painting the sky in vibrant colors, and for the first time, Jimmy doesn’t hide. He just watches, with you beside him, like the world decided to be kind for one night.
“Merry Christmas, doll,” he says—simple, but filled with everything he never knew how to put into words.
“Merry Christmas, love,” you reply.
You kiss him there, in the dark on the hill, the city glowing behind you. And you know that, for Jimmy Darling, this was his first real Christmas.
next posts ...
working on
↳ [ tate langdon - harmon!reader ]
↳ [ kyle spencer - headcanon ]
in line
↳ [ percy jackson - hurt ]
↳ [ mike wheeler - babysitter ]
↳ [ james march - ballerina ]
christmas tree
franken-kyle 𝔁 f!reader, word count 1400
summary: you decorate the coven's christmas tree together with your zombie boyfriend.
genre: fluff!!
warnings: nonee
Author's notes: Happy Christmas Eve, my loves!! I hope you have a wonderful dayy. I don't know if I liked it that much, after all I'm not very good at writing with Franken Kyle, even though I love him very much, but I hope you enjoy it. ♡ (it has not been reviewed)
( ✧ requests open ✧ )
Christmas was approaching in New Orleans, and the city’s humid air felt lighter somehow. Miss Robichaux’s Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies, home to the witches’ coven, was wrapped in a rare kind of silence, broken only by the crackling of the fireplace in the main room—most of the girls had gone out to buy presents.
You, as one of the newest witches in the coven, had taken it upon yourself to bring a bit of visual cheer to the place. Cordelia had approved the idea with a tired smile, saying that a touch of normalcy would do everyone good after the turbulent events of the year. But you weren’t alone on this mission. Your boyfriend, Kyle Spencer, was going to help you.
Kyle had been brought back to life by Zoe and Madison, his body stitched together from different human parts. At first, he was just deeply confused, grunting and stumbling around the house like a zombie. But over time—and with your endless patience—he became something more. He still didn’t speak perfectly; his sentences came out broken and raspy, but his brown eyes said everything words couldn’t. He loved you in a fierce, protective, and tender way all at once.
You found him in the bedroom, watching something on his tablet.
“Ky,” you called, walking closer. “Do you want to help me with the tree?”
He blinked, processing the words. His movements were still a bit stiff. “Tr… tree?” he repeated, tilting his head.
“Yes, the Christmas tree. Let’s set it up together. It’ll be fun.”
His eyes lit up, and he nodded.
You smiled, taking his hand. It was warm, despite everything.
“Great. Let’s start.”
You went down the wide staircase together, the wood creaking under Kyle’s uneven steps. He held your hand tightly—not too tight, but never letting go.
In the main room, the tree was already standing, still bare and slightly crooked. Cordelia had managed to get a seven-foot tree with the coven’s last savings, but no one had had the time—or the energy—to decorate it yet. Boxes of old ornaments, some with flaking glitter, others clearly thrift-store finds, were scattered across the rug.
Kyle stopped at the entrance to the room, staring at everything with a mix of fascination and suspicion. He slowly let go of your hand, like he needed both of them to understand what he was seeing.
“P-pretty…” he murmured, his voice still rough, almost catching in his throat.
“It is.” You knelt down to open the first box. “We’re going to make it beautiful. Want to start with the lights?”
He nodded too fast, making his messy blond curls bounce. You handed him the tangled bundle of white lights, and Kyle took it with both hands.
He stood there staring at the lights for a good twenty seconds.
You laughed softly.
"You can untangle them, love. Slowly."
Kyle frowned in concentration and started pulling. Of course, the lights refused to cooperate: the more he pulled, the more tangled they got. He let out a frustrated sound, almost a low growl, and looked at you with an expression that clearly asked for help.
You stepped closer, slid your arms under his, and held the lights with him. Your chest pressed against his back as you guided his movements.
"Like this… slowly… look, loosen it here… that’s it." You patiently worked through the knots. "There. Now we wrap them around the tree."
You managed to get all the lights on the tree without any major issues—which was a win.
When the lights finally turned on, the whole room filled with a warm, golden glow. Kyle took a step back, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.
“Pretty…” he said again, but this time the word came out softer, almost reverent.
You picked up one of the oldest red ornaments and placed it in his hand.
“Now the ornaments. You can hang them wherever you want.”
He looked at the ornament, then at you, then at the tree, like he was trying to decide if this was real.
And then, with almost ceremonial slowness, he hung the first ornament right in the front, in the most obvious spot possible.
You smiled. “Perfect.”
You kept going like that, at a slow, unhurried pace. You handed him an ornament, Kyle studied it for a second, turning it over in his large hands as if discovering something new, then hung it with exaggerated care. Sometimes he chose a branch too low, sometimes too high—he had to stretch all the way up. You didn’t correct him; you let him do it his way.
At one point, you picked up a slightly crooked golden star and handed it to him.
“This one goes on top,” you said, pointing upward. “But I don’t think I can reach. Can you?”
Kyle looked at the star, then at the top of the tree, calculating. He nodded once, serious. You stood behind him, ready to help if needed, but he raised his arms on his own, went up on his toes, and carefully set the star in place. When he finished, he turned to you, waiting for approval.
You clapped softly. “Beautiful, Ky. It’s perfect.”
His face broke into a wide, awkward smile—the kind that made the thin scars on his neck more visible for a second. He took a hesitant step forward and rested his forehead against yours. It was something he did when he wanted to be close but didn’t quite know how to ask. You felt the warmth of his skin, the faint scent of soap lingering from his morning shower.
You lifted your hands and cupped his face with both palms, your thumbs slowly brushing his cheekbones. He closed his eyes for a moment, like that touch was the only thing anchoring him to the world.
Kyle slid his big hands down to your waist, pulling you a little closer, carefully—always carefully. His fingers trembled slightly, not from nerves, but from focus, like he was measuring the exact amount of strength so he wouldn’t hold you too tightly. You wrapped your arms around his neck, feeling the stiffness in his shoulders gradually ease under your touch.
He lowered his head and pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth—not quite a kiss, more like a lingering caress. Then he moved down to your neck, leaving small kisses there, his nose brushing your skin. You felt a pleasant shiver and tightened your arms around him a bit more.
“E-excited fo… for—” he tried, his voice low and raspy, almost a whisper. He stopped, frustrated with himself. Instead of forcing the words, he pulled you against his chest—a firm, protective hug, the kind only he knew how to give.
You smiled against his shoulder, kissing the fabric of his shirt.
“I know,” you murmured. “I’m excited for Christmas too.”
You stayed like that in the middle of the room, the almost fully decorated tree behind you, lights reflecting on the old wooden floor. Kyle started gently swaying the two of you from side to side, like there was a song playing only in his head. You let him lead, your cheek resting against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
After a while, he pulled back just enough to look at you again. He pointed at the tree, then at the worn sofa near the fireplace.
“You want to sit?” you asked, guessing what he meant.
He nodded. He took your hand and led you to the couch, sitting down first and pulling you onto his lap—not in a sexual way. You settled in sideways, your legs over his, your head on his shoulder. Kyle wrapped one arm around your waist, his other hand drifting up to absentmindedly play with a strand of your hair.
You sat there watching the tree in silence. A few ornaments were still missing, but neither of you seemed in any rush to finish.
Kyle pressed his lips to your temple, leaving a long, warm kiss there. Then another, lower, on your cheek. You turned your face and found his mouth—a real kiss this time, slow and gentle, unhurried. He still kissed with a certain shyness, like every time was the first, and you loved that about him.
When you pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours again, breathing deeply.
“I love you,” he said. That was the one thing Kyle could say clearly, and it moved you every single time.
You smiled, your eyes misty in the best way.
“I love you more, Ky,” you replied, kissing the tip of his nose.
He smiled back—that crooked, beautiful smile that was all his—and held you a little tighter, like he wanted to keep that moment forever.
waiting
kit walker 𝔁 f!reader, word count 1800
summary: You had the Christmas everyone dreams of. But now, only memories remain.
genre: fluff/angst
warnings: none
author's notes: hii guys, I know a Christmas one-shot for Christmas week should be cheerful, but I couldn't help but include a little sadness, I'm sorry!! But I hope you like it ♡♡ (it has not been reviewed). part two
( ✧ requests open ✧ )
You wake up to the smell of fresh pine and roasted coffee. It’s December 25th, 1962, and the house is way too quiet for Christmas — until you hear quick little footsteps in the hallway. Your kids burst into the bedroom, bouncing with excitement, the red flannel pajamas you hand-sewed still wrinkled from sleep.
“Mommy! Daddy! Wake up! Santa came!”
Kit is already awake, pretending to sleep just to watch it all unfold. He cracks one eye open, smiles lazily, and pulls you closer before sitting up in bed. His messy brown hair falls over his forehead, and he runs a hand through it, chuckling softly.
“Alright, alright, we’re getting up, you little troublemakers.”
You all head to the living room together. The tree glows with the colorful lights you hung the night before, Bing Crosby singing White Christmas on the radio. Under the tree, packages wrapped with red ribbon. The kids tear into one of the presents — an electric train — and squeal, clapping their hands in pure joy.
Kit kneels on the floor with them, putting the tracks together with the kind of patience only he has. You linger in the kitchen doorway, watching. Every so often, he looks up, catches your eye, and smiles in that way that still makes your stomach flip after all these years. You think, like you always do in moments like this: how lucky you are. How good life is.
Kit clicks the last track into place and makes a point of handing the controller to the youngest first. When the train starts moving, making that uneven metallic sound, he claps along with them, genuinely thrilled, like it’s the greatest invention in the world.
You start the coffee, still watching. A few minutes later, Kit shows up in the kitchen doorway, one kid hanging off each arm, and steals a quick, almost distracted kiss before grabbing two mugs from the cabinet.
The table is cramped with everyone together, but no one cares. Crumbs everywhere, laughter too loud, a glass of milk nearly spilled. Kit tells a dumb story about when he was a kid and thought Santa came down the neighbors’ chimney because his was too small. The kids laugh like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.
You watch him as he tells it — the way his eyes light up when the kids laugh, like every giggle is a gift just for him. He pulls exaggerated faces and does a deep Santa voice, which makes them lose it even more.
After breakfast, you all head outside. The snow is light and fresh, the cold biting at your nose, but no one wants to go back in. Kit scoops the kids up — one in each arm, even though they’re already too big for that — and starts running in circles across the yard, pretending he’s a sleigh pulled by reindeer. You chase after him, yelling, “Careful, Kit, you’re gonna fall!” even though you’re laughing the whole time.
He stops suddenly, sets the kids down, and turns to you with that crooked smile.
“Come here, love.”
You do. He pulls you into a tight hug and kisses you. The kids yell “gross!”, but you don’t care. Kit tilts his head and kisses you slowly, like you have all the time in the world. The cold disappears for a second. There’s only the warmth of his mouth, the way his gloved hand cups the back of your neck like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.
When you pull apart, the kids are already building a snowman. Kit joins them. Later, back inside, the smell of roasting turkey fills the house. You and Kit are in the kitchen — him chopping onions for the stuffing, you stirring the gravy. He comes up behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, and rests his chin on your shoulder.
“You know what I like most about Christmas?” he murmurs, his voice low, just for you.
“What?”
He goes quiet for a second, like he’s choosing the right answer. Very him. His hand tightens slightly at your waist, unconscious, almost protective.
“That I have you. And them. And all of this.” He nods toward the living room, where the kids are piling torn wrapping paper on the couch like it’s a mountain of treasure. “Sometimes I look at us and think—damn, we made it. We built this from nothing. And it almost feels impossible that something this good is real.”
You turn slowly to face him. He’s too close, his brown eyes so near you can see the gold flecks that only show up when the light hits just right. He gives you a small, almost shy smile, like he said something huge and is waiting for you to laugh.
You don’t.
Instead, you hold his face with both hands, your thumbs brushing his cheeks, flushed from the heat of the kitchen, and you say softly:
“It’s real, Kit. Forever.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, like those words are the only thing he needed to hear in the entire world. Then he opens them and kisses you. It’s slow, lingering — the kind of kiss that feels like it could last a lifetime.
The turkey whistles in the oven. The radio keeps playing. The kids shout something about the snowman losing its nose. You don’t care.
The rest of the day passes like a slow-motion film. A table full of dirty dishes, dessert topped with whipped cream, Kit telling more stupid stories until the kids collapse on the rug, exhausted from laughing so hard. That night, when you finally tuck everyone into bed, he pulls you into the bedroom and kicks the door closed with his foot.
“Merry Christmas, love,” he whispers against your mouth.
Lying on your side, he wraps himself around you from behind, chest pressed to your back, chin tucked against your shoulder. You listen to the snow tapping the window, the soft wind, the house breathing.
“Promise we’ll have more Christmases like this,” he murmurs, already sleepy.
You squeeze his hand against your stomach.
“I promise.”
He sighs, content, and falls asleep.
You stay awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling, feeling the warm weight of his body behind you. And you think: this is forever.
But it isn’t.
Now it’s December 25th, 1963.
The house is too quiet. The tree lights are the same, but they look dimmer. The radio is off. The kids are still asleep, worn out from pretending the day was happy. The turkey you made was too small for so many people, and almost all of it is left over.
You’re in the kitchen, washing the few dishes from the somber dinner, when you hear the mailbox slam hard against the front door. It’s late — the mailman doesn’t come this late on Christmas — but sometimes there are special deliveries, letters no one wants to sit waiting until after the holidays.
You dry your hands on the dish towel, your heart already racing before you even see the envelope. When you open the door, icy air rushes in along with swirling snow. There, on the porch floor, a thick envelope, cream-colored, with an official state seal. Your name and address written in his handwriting — shaky, but unmistakable.
You shut the door quickly and sink into the first chair you find, the one at the kitchen table — the one he always used to sit on while tying the kids’ shoes. The envelope is stamped: Briarcliff Manor. Asylum for the Criminally Insane. The words printed in black ink look like they’re burning through the paper.
You already know what happened. Everyone in town knows. For over a year now, ever since they took him away in handcuffs, shouting your name as the van doors slammed shut. “They said he was dangerous,” the neighbors whispered. “That there were things wrong in his head no one could fix.” You never believed it. You never will. But the system doesn’t care what you believe.
You open the envelope with numb fingers. The letter is written in pencil, which surprises you — they probably didn’t allow anything that could be used as a weapon — but your husband was always clever. You knew that.
"Briarcliff
December 25th, 1963
My love,
Writing this is harder than I thought. Not because I don’t know what to say — God knows I think about you all the time — but because every word feels too small for what I feel. In here, Christmas doesn’t really exist, but they pretend it does. The lights are cold, fluorescent, and the place smells like disinfectant and fear. There’s no music, no children running around, the smiles are forced.
I close my eyes and try to remember our last Christmas together. You laughing while we tried to straighten that crooked tree. You with flour on your nose, baking cookies. Me kissing you in the kitchen while the turkey water boiled over. I remember every detail like it was yesterday. Your scent. The way you twirled your hair around your finger when you were thinking. The sound of your laugh when I did something stupid.
Do the kids still ask about me? Tell them I remember the electric train. That I remember every laugh. That I dream about them every day. That I haven’t given up.
And you… do you still wear that red dress on Christmas? The one that looks way too beautiful on you? I close my eyes and see you in it, slow-dancing with me in the kitchen. I can still feel the fabric under my fingers.
I don’t know how long I’ll be here. I don’t know if I’ll come out whole, if I come out at all. But I know this: I love you more than any words on this paper could ever say. I love you on the good days and on the days that feel endless. I love you even when I can’t remember who I am.
If I can’t come back this year, don’t be sad at Christmas. Turn on the tree for me. Sing the bad songs. Eat an extra piece of cake. And know that wherever I am, I’m thinking of you. Always you.
Merry Christmas, my love.
I love you more than anything.
Kit"
You fold the letter and press it to your chest. The paper is cold, but you feel his warmth in it, like he placed his hand over yours before sending it.
Then you cry. A lot. So much you don’t even notice the time passing.
The snow taps against the window. The tree blinks. The radio sings.
You lie down on the rug, on your side, the way you used to sleep together. You pull his blanket up to your chin. Close your eyes.
And you stay there.
Waiting.
He didn’t come home for Christmas in 1964. Or in 1965. But even so, you kept waiting for him.
snowed in
tate langdon 𝔁 f!reader, word count 1700
summary: your plans were to spend christmas with your distant family, but when a heavy snowfall disrupts your plans, you are forced to spend christmas with your needy boyfriend.
genre: fluff
warnings: nonee
author's notes: helloo, I've decided that each day this week, in celebration of Christmas, I'm going to post a story for each of Evan's characters in AHS (❄️). This didn't end up being as long as I wanted, but I hope you like it!! (and let's intend there's a possibility to have a snowfall in LA). btw it hasn't been reviewed yet
( ✧ requests open ✧ )
You wake up to a familiar smell and the sound of someone whispering right by your ear.
“Happy Christmas, baby…”
His voice is raspy with sleep, a little sad. You slowly open your eyes and find Tate lying on his stomach beside you, chin propped on his hand, looking at you like you’re the best gift he’s ever gotten in his life. His blond hair is a total mess, and he’s wearing the ridiculous reindeer sweater he insisted on putting on last night “to get into the spirit.”
You smile, still half-asleep.
“Happy Christmas, love.”
He smiles back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Something’s off.
“What is it?” you ask, reaching out to brush his fringe away from his forehead.
Tate shrugs, pretending it’s nothing, but his voice comes out soft.
“It’s just… you’re leaving today, right? Your parents are probably already on the road since yesterday, waiting for you in Sacramento or whatever. Our first Christmas together and I’m gonna be here… alone again.”
He says it so quietly it almost disappears. Your chest tightens. This was supposed to be your first Christmas as a real couple. You promised you’d try to come back early from your aunt and uncle’s place, but he knows “early” is never before midnight on the 25th.
“My flight’s at noon,” you say, running your fingers through his messy blond hair. “But I’ll be back tomorrow morning, I swear. We’ll open presents, watch movies, do everything—”
He nods way too fast, like he doesn’t want to hear the rest.
“It’s okay. I get it.”
But it’s not okay. You know him.
You sigh and pull him into a tight hug. He immediately buries his face in your neck, like he always does when he’s sad but doesn’t want to admit it.
Then you notice it… silence. A weird silence. No cars outside. No neighbors yelling “Merry Christmas.” No distant airport noise.
You gently pull away and walk over to the bedroom window. The world outside is white. Completely white.
The whole street is gone. Cars buried. The snow reaches almost halfway up the first-floor window. The radio your parents left on in the kitchen last night must’ve warned about it overnight, but the two of you slept wrapped around each other and didn’t hear a thing.
“…Tate.”
“Hm?”
“Look at the window.”
He turns his head slowly, like he’s scared of what he’ll see. When he takes in the blizzard, he blinks twice, and his whole face lights up in a way you’ve never seen before.
You grab your phone. 47 notifications. Flights canceled. Highways closed. Blizzard alert.
You look at him, trying not to laugh at his shocked expression.
“Looks like… I’m not going anywhere.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
His smile spreads, brighter, more childlike, taking over his face.
Tate practically launches himself at you, knocking you back onto the bed, covering your face, neck, and forehead in kisses.
“Best. Christmas. Of. My. Life,” he says between kisses.
You laugh so hard your stomach hurts.
“Okay, okay, let me breathe, you maniac!”
He stops, but doesn’t get off you. He rests his chin on your chest, eyes shining.
“So… we’ve got the whole day. Just us.”
You run your fingers through his hair.
“Just us.”
You stay in bed a little longer, tangled up together, laughing quietly while the snow keeps falling outside. Tate lazily traces circles on your arm with his fingertip, still not quite believing his luck.
Suddenly, he sits up, eyes wide like he just remembered something important.
“Wait. Don’t move.”
He jumps out of bed, nearly tripping over the reindeer sweater that slid onto the floor during the night. You laugh, propping yourself up on your elbows to watch him disappear down the hallway.
A few minutes later, Tate comes back, carefully balancing a big tray with both hands. He’s completely focused, tongue slightly sticking out like when he’s trying not to drop anything. On the tray: two steaming mugs of coffee (yours exactly how you like it, with milk and a pinch of cinnamon), warm pancakes with maple syrup dripping down the sides, sliced strawberries on top, and a small plate of ginger cookies you made together the night before last (the leftovers, since most of them didn’t survive your movie-night snacking).
He stops in the doorway, a little shy.
“I… I made this late last night. In case you came back early tomorrow. But…” He shrugs, smiling crookedly. “You’re here now, so…”
He just stands there, waiting for your reaction, like he’s afraid he overdid it. Your chest tightens in the best way possible.
You sit up fast and hold your hand out. “Come here.”
He walks over carefully, still holding the tray. You help him set it down on the bedside table and, before he can step away, you grab Tate by the collar of the ridiculous reindeer sweater and kiss him. It’s not rushed. It’s warm, slow, full of affection.
When you pull back, he’s a little breathless, blinking.
“Thank you,” you murmur, smiling as you brush your thumb over his cheek.
He drops his gaze, clearly not knowing what to do with the compliment. “You’re welcome,” he says softly.
You eat right there in bed, sharing pancakes, stealing strawberries from each other’s plates. Outside, the snow keeps falling, turning the world quiet, like everything paused just for the two of you.
After breakfast, you wrap yourselves in blankets and head to the living room. Tate lights the fireplace and picks a cheesy Christmas movie you’ve seen a thousand times, but neither of you cares. You lie with your head on his chest while he absentmindedly plays with your fingers.
You stay there quietly, barely watching the movie, more focused on the glow of the fire than the plot. Snow taps gently against the window, the crackle of the flames fills the good silences, and Tate looks at peace. A rare thing.
Halfway through the movie, you feel him get restless. He shifts under the blanket, clears his throat, glances at the clock that barely works.
“You okay?” you ask, lifting your head from his chest.
He bites his lip, nervous. Then he takes a deep breath, like he’s made up his mind.
“Yeah. Come with me.”
He stands up and pulls you by the hand to the Christmas tree. It’s fairly big, a little crooked, covered in ornaments that don’t match — half yours, half his, a few from your family. There’s a box underneath you hadn’t noticed before. Small, wrapped in slightly crumpled cream-colored paper, with a simple black ribbon.
Tate picks it up way too carefully.
“I… I bought this on Halloween,” he starts, avoiding your eyes. “We’d fought that day, but I still had to get you something, because… you know.” He lets out an awkward laugh about only being allowed out of the house that day.
He hands the gift to you, unsure.
“If you don’t like it, it’s okay.”
You take the box slowly. Just the fact that he kept it for months makes your chest ache.
You open it.
Inside is a delicate silver necklace, with a small pendant shaped like an old key. It’s not flashy. It’s exactly you.
“I saw it and thought of you,” he says quickly, shy but needing to explain. “Because you kind of… unlocked things in me I’d kept closed for a long time.”
You don’t say anything for a few seconds. You just look at the necklace, then at him.
Then you smile. That smile that completely wrecks him.
“Tate…” you swallow. “It’s perfect.”
He looks up, surprised. He watches you put the necklace on with total focus, like it’s the most important moment in the world.
“Let me,” he asks, stepping behind you to fasten the clasp. His fingers tremble a little.
When he’s done, you turn around and kiss his cheek, then his forehead, then rest your nose against his.
“Thank you, my love. I loved it. Now it’s my turn.”
Tate stands in front of the tree, the lights blinking softly across his face, highlighting his faint dark circles and the smile he tries to hide by biting his lip.
“Stay there,” you say, pointing at him playfully. “No peeking.”
He raises his hands in surrender, laughing quietly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You grab your package — wrapped in dark red paper, tied with a black ribbon you made yourself (and remade about three times until it looked decent). It’s bigger than his box, rectangular, a little heavy. You come back holding it behind your back, just to watch him try (and fail) not to be curious.
You step closer and place the gift in his hands carefully.
He looks at it slowly, blinking like he’s waking from a dream. When he sees the wrapping, his whole face softens. He laughs — short and genuine — and it warms your chest. He unwraps it carefully, unlike you, who tore everything open in seconds. When the paper falls away, it reveals a simple dark wooden box with a small lock on the front. He raises an eyebrow, confused.
You’re nervous, watching his reaction, as he turns the tiny key you left hanging on the side. Inside, lined with black velvet, are several things.
First, a Polaroid photo of the two of you — taken on Halloween, when you went to the beach. You’re sitting facing the ocean, your head on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around you.
Under the photo, a black hardcover notebook. Inside, you wrote. Pages and pages. Some with silly drawings of him sleeping, laughing, wearing the ridiculous reindeer sweater. Others with thoughts you had when he wasn’t looking. Little stories you made up about futures you might’ve had if things were different.
He flips through it slowly, eyes scanning the lines. You see the exact moment he reads something that catches him off guard — his eyes fill with tears.
Tate doesn’t speak for a long time. He just looks at the box with awe, then at you, like he’s trying to memorize every detail of your face. Then he leans in and hugs you tightly.
“Thank you,” he whispers against your shoulder, his voice rough, almost breaking. “I love you so much.”
“I love you more, Tate.”
You stay like that for a while — time kind of stops existing. The snow keeps falling outside, the Christmas movie forgotten on the TV, the fireplace crackling softly. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are red, but his smile is the most real you’ve ever seen on him.
He leans in and kisses you — slow, deep, like he has all the time in the world. And for the first time in a long while, he really does.
Later, you open the rest of the presents (silly things, like the ridiculous sweater you got him and the poetry book he gives you, full of Post-its where he wrote comments in the margins). But none of them matter as much as the ones you already exchanged.
The day passes slowly, perfectly. You make hot chocolate with marshmallows you burn on purpose, dance to a terrible Christmas song in the middle of the living room, collapse onto the couch laughing when he tries to spin you and almost knocks the whole tree over.
And when night comes, with the snow still falling and the world outside completely still, you go back to bed.
“Best Christmas,” he says.
You kiss his forehead. He smiles against your neck, and you fall asleep like that — tangled together, warm, with the whole world frozen outside, but in there, just the warmth of the two of you.
