Mentions of Violet Harmon, Chad Warwick and Sally McKenna.
This is a combination of both Murder House and Hotel, but the large majority of it takes place in the Murder House.
In this, the reader is an ambiguous character to takes on the common Grim Reaper trope of guiding souls to the afterlife. They struggle with doing this in supernatural hotspots such as the Murder House due to the stubborn, evil and traumatized spirits that live there.
But they especially struggle with Tate Langdon, a boy who refuses to accept his hellish fate. But Death just can't seem to grapple their strange attachment with him.
Word count: 2k
If you don't want to read the Hotel section, skip to the transition symbol ┉┈◈◉◈┈┉
The hallways of the Hotel Cortez were never welcoming. At least, for you they weren't. The non-human entities, most of whom contradict your existence, weren't keen on having you roam the building. You demonstrated the truth of their circumstances. The vulnerability they hid behind violence.
But you still saw it. How could you not? It's your job, after all.
The carpeted floor felt grimy, even through your shoes. The lights down the hallway flickered. You could feel a draft echoing through the unmaintained vents, or... screams?
It's difficult to tell when they all feel the same to you. A calling – more work to be done. Eventually, that is.
You heard footsteps staggering somewhere behind you. Turning your head down the dim hallway, you saw Sally stumble out of a darkened room. Her old, crimped and frizzy hair fell around her face while cigarette smoke curled around her figure.
She stopped when she saw you. She pointed at you, cigarette latched between her two fingers. "Well, look who's decided to haunt my hallways. What do you want, Grim Reaper?"
You smiled, glancing down at the patterned floor before meeting her eyes again. "You know that's not my name, Sally." The ghost in question scoffed, throwing her shoulders back to emphasize her distaste at your correction. "And it's not haunting, it's... monitoring. Making sure the lost know they have a choice."
Sally snorted, her feet dragging as she walked further down the dimly light hallway. "A choice? Please. You really think any of us would choose this damned place if we had any real options?"
You shrugged. "Some did. Some still can, if they want. It's never too late for those who haven't thrown it away." Your voice was gentle, but firm. It was a necessary precaution when speaking to spirits, especially those like Sally.
You watched Sally take a long drag of her cigarette. She had stopped walking, planting her heeled shoes into the dirty carpet. Her narrowed eyes never left yours.
Breathing out the smoke, "You mean, if they haven't been stupid enough to turn you down already." Her arm fell back down to her side, cigarette ash falling to the floor. She paid it no mind. "But we all know how that goes–regret and begging. You get off on that, don't you?"
You shook your head. "It's not about getting off on anything, Sally. It's about respect. It's about finality. I don't relish in their pain. I mourn it."
The ghost laughed bitterly. Your words, which normally cut through the fragile facades of the deceased, barely scratched her. "Well, yeah, keep your mourning to yourself. None of us are going anywhere. We're all trapped in our own hells, and nothing you say will change that."
"Perhaps. But I'll still be here, Sally. For those who might change their minds. For those who need to know that there's a way out, even if it's only once." You spoke softly, looking away from Sally for a moment. You nodded slightly, confirming your beliefs to yourself.
You need to stay in touch with your ideals. Your morals. Your job.
You saw her eyes flicker, hints of vulnerability poking through before they hardened again. "Don't waste your time." She brought the cigarette back up to her red lips but stopped before she inhaled the drugs within. "You know, instead of bargaining with the freaks here, you should really be having that talk with your boy-toy at that house."
Your face hardened whilst hers curved with humor.
She shrugged dramatically, tilting her head in the process. "Seems like you're not so good at your job after all." Her eyes widened in mockery.
"Tate's choices are his own. I can't force him to do anything." You defended your stance, shifting your body to fully face the deranged ghost. "My job doesn't circle around force. It's about accepting your situation and moving on."
"Hm. Well, good luck with that." Her eyes narrowed more, which you didn't even think was possible. "Places like this have a way of holding on to its ghosts." Her hand, cigarette still placed between her fingers, gestured around you two to the otherwise empty hallway.
You watched her turn heel and walk down the remainder of the hallway. Your eyes remained latched onto the cheetah print of her coat before she turned out of sight.
You sighed, looking down at your feet for a moment. Shit– you should really check up on that place.
┉┈◈◉◈┈┉
You walked into the house through the back door, noticing the emptiness in the air due to the absence of the living. Ever since the death of the Harmons, the large house has sat abandoned for the most part.
You sighed, running your fingers through your hair. You haven't been here in a hot minute– too caught up at the hotel in the city.
"Oh, look who it is." You looked over your shoulder at the kitchen area, seeing Chad Warwick leaning on the counter. "Back again, oh door-to-door Jehovah's Witness? Still trying to sell us all on that afterlife plan?" You watched his nose crinkle when he spoke and how his clasped hands gripped each other with more strength.
The man's reaction to you was common. He's always been like this. Originally refusing you to stay with his boyfriend, now existing in pure ignorance ever since the relationship soured with age.
You raised your eyebrows, responding to him anyway. "Your choice, Chad. But remember, doors to the afterlife don't stay open forever."
"Hm, do they?" He tilted his head, watching you as you walked by and towards the staircase. You knew his bitterness was just a reflection of his personal problems, so like the others, you didn't let it affect you.
The stairs creaked under your shoes. Dust and broken glass littered the wooden floorboards. Graffiti decorated the walls in various bold colors as you trailed throughout the familiar building.
Your fingers traced the cracked walls. The paint crumbled and fell behind them, hitting the floor softly. The only sound was the sound your shoes made as you navigated down the hall. You finally stopped when you turned a corner, opting to lean against the wooden doorway instead of fully entering it.
Tate laid on the old mattress in the room. It still sat on Violet's old bed frame, although you don't remember who owned the mattress. It's been too long to remember trivial details like that.
The boy turned his head to face you, dirty blond hair falling over his forehead. "What's the matter, Death? Didn't get enough souls today?" His voice was laced in sarcasm, arms crossed in a defensive pose. He became detached after learning of your true purpose. Cold.
You haven't decided if you should put that against him though.
"Just thought I'd check in, Tate. How's the afterlife treating you?" You raised an eyebrow. He's rejected your proposals of moving on more times than you can count. There's no point in being professional anymore. So why do you still feel so attached?
Tate scoffed, sitting up on the bed and crossing his arms in his lap. "Oh, it's great. Violet still hates me; the house is still a hellhole."
So hostile.
"Why are you here?" He added on at the end of his short rant. You watched his blue eyes, lined with redness, narrow at you.
You shrugged, walking in the room slowly. You lingered around the walls, quickly glancing outside through the window. "Just... doing rounds. Discussing the reality of the stubbornness you ghosts seem to hold for my proposal." You said it nonchalantly, but Tate could recognize your poor attempts at manipulation. You were a truthful, blunt entity. Manipulation wasn't in your blood.
You leaned against the wall, shadows encapsulating your face as you looked at the boy. In contrast, the sun amplified his features. His expression of hatred, fear. Refusal to accept his fate. "Maybe," you started, "I'm just... attached in a way I shouldn't be."
"Attached? That's rich." He crossed his legs on the mattress, jaw ticking as his fingers traced the stained seams of the fabric. "I thought you were all business. Guide souls, move on. An eternal one-night stand attitude." He grumbled, eyes looking back at you.
You smiled. "It's not that simple, Tate."
He didn't respond. His fingers continued to trace the stitches in the fabric, trying to find a distraction to the situation he was in. An obvious detail that none of the ghosts here seemed to take into consideration when scaring the living away was the removal of any distractions or entertainment.
You looked down to where Tate – and also Violet, at some point – had stored his albums. The floor was empty now.
"You know," you heard him speak, "if I go with you, there's only one place I'm heading. Hell. Doesn't exactly sound like a vacation."
It wasn't a lie. You had been honest about that with him from the get-go. The boy was destined for Hell, and you couldn't help but silently pray that he'd just accept that.
"Tate, you've always known the consequences of your actions. But staying here, trapped in this endless cycle, isn't a permanent solution to your problem either. You remained natural, as best you could regarding the boy. Your stance was approachable, casual.
His eyes darkened. His finger stopped the movement against the mattress below him. "At least here, I know what to expect. Hell... that's a different kind of torture. I'm not exactly itching to find out what they have planned for me."
"Hm." You hummed, leaning your head against the cracked wall and staring off at the ceiling. "That's true. You don't. I don't even know."
He scoffed, annoyed by your attitude. He could feel his irritation grow the longer you intruded in his space.
"But think about it, Tate." Your nose crinkled as you turned your head to look back at him. "This house won't stand forever." You smiled. "One day it will crumble or be torn down. And where will you be? Trapped in the ruins, a ghost with no anchor. Your suffering won't end, Tate. It'll just evolve into a new kind of torment."
Tate frowned, a hint of fear flickering in his eyes as he quickly looked away from you. "Why does it matter? I'm already in Hell here. At least it's familiar."
Your voice was still soft, but sterner as you continued to fill his head with images of his fate. "Familiar doesn't mean safe. The ghosts bound to this place will scatter, their ties disconnected. Lost without something to focus their energy on. You have a chance to leave this shit hole on your own terms. Obtain a semblance of control over your fate."
"Fuck. Control, seriously? What kind of control do I have knowing what's on the other side?" His voice got louder, angrier as his head shot up to face you again.
"Hiding from what you fear will only make your existence more miserable when this place can't protect you anymore."
Your face went blank. You watched one of his eyes twitch, annoyed by the impending reality he was faced with. You stared at each other, yours a look of understanding, his of fear and boiling hatred. Suddenly, he whispered, "You really believe that, don't you?"
You nod. "I do. I need to. And I'll be here, waiting, for whenever you do too."
You stood up straight, not giving the boy another look as you left the room. Your hand trailed against the wall again, before you turned the corner.
Tate watched you leave, attempting to appear indifferent to your conversation. But he couldn't deny the emotions it stirred up inside him. He could take what the other ghosts said about him. He could push their words down until he either forgot about them or lashed out in a swell of emotions.
But you... you were different. You were an inhuman, cosmic creature crafted by the universe.
And his attachment to you wasn't going to save him.
Interview with the Vampire: Claudia de Pointe du Lac x Reader
This was made with the idea of being platonic but could also be read with romantic undertones I suppose. I just wanted to give her some love because no one really talks about her on here.
Takes place in season two - Paris, 1950.
Word count: 1.2k
Claudia's hand shook as she leaned her head against it. Her leg bounced against the wooden floor, slightly heeled shoe making a soft clicking sound each time. Her skin felt colder than usual, bare elbows resting on the vanity in front of her. Her face scrunched up in irritation at the sounds of the audience cheering and clapping for those on stage.
She cursed herself as the coven played with her storyline, her insecurities. The fact that her existence was an abomination was humorous to them. They found joy in mocking her right to her face.
She had spent so long finding other vampires. Her determination constantly tested at every dead-end and suicide she was forced to witness. Finding the Parsian Coven had been a dream come true for her. A way to find true purpose. To be surrounded by other vampires who saw her as more than a child. More than their child.
But she was met with the same resistance as before. A group of centuries old vampires who saw her as a mistake. Who found pleasure in exploiting her.
The various ruffles and laced parts of the outfit she was forced to wear itched and burned her skin. She reached to the collar of the blue dress, pulling at the fabric like she was pulling off a second skin.
She craved to hear the stitching be torn out of the homemade dress. Desired to watch the fabric curl in on itself in a pit of fire, or watch it dissolve in a tank of acid. Anything to destroy any remnants of a connection she has with it.
Her eyebrows drew together, knitting in a tight line of frustration and humiliation. Her lips quivered when she finally took in the appearance of her face. The face of a teenage girl, decked out in blue eyeshadow and faux freckles stared back at her. She felt her breathing get deeper, harsher.
Her red eyes scanned over the mirror's reflection, hands stopping their clawing movements against the dress. The sounds faded out behind her. They sounded miniscule, unimportant as she blankly took in her makeup covered face. The face of a girl who should've died forty-three years ago.
Her fingers moved to her face, erratically smudging away the makeup. It smeared together, blending into inharmonious colors against her skin. Her red eyes seemed to be brighter in contrast to the ugly smudges on her face, breathing in deeply to restrict her true emotions which were threatening to break through the surface.
"Makeup pads are over there, y'know."
Claudia's head snapped over her neck, hands tensing while still being held out in front of her. You took in her face, the vulnerability expressed underneath all that rage.
You were leaning against a wooden pillar in the middle of the room, arms loosely crossed over your chest. You looked at her blankly.
"Oh, really? How quaint." She responded after a second of hesitation, voice bitter. She turned back around in her seat and crossed her arms in her lap. Her eyes refused to meet the mirror in front of her. She pushed her embarrassment down, replacing it with defiant rage. It continued to build as she heard you walking over to Estelle's dresser. "Shouldn't you be out there? Playing out those fantasies of yours?"
You pushed in the dresser's cabinet with your hip after grabbing what you need, smiling to yourself at the sound of her accent. You've yet to visit America, but it seems just as bland as the rest of the mortal run world. At least here you have some of your kind.
"I'm not on today." You placed the makeup pads on her vanity after responding vaguely. Claudia glared at them while picking at her nails. While she was desperate to remove any childlike addition they gave her for the performance, she refused to accept your aid.
"I don't need your help. I'm not a kid." She spat, looking back at you as you sat down near her at another vanity. You crossed one leg over the other, leaning closer to the mirror and adjusting a piece of your hair.
"I didn't say you were."
"Felt like it."
Her response was quick, practiced. She's had this conversation before. Whether it be mortals or vampires, she was never deemed as an equal in their eyes. She learned that the hard way.
Your arm fell to the table, head turning to look at her. It was silent for a moment. Just you and her staring at each other. Her face seemed to be set in a permanent snarl.
Claudia's walls were high. They had to be. After everything she'd gone through, she had no other options but to close everyone out. Her struggles were just that -- hers. No one else understands her pain. The curse of immortality in a body that restricted growth and true experiences. Unable to bond with neither mortal nor vampire, the former seeing her as a child and latter seeing her as an atrocity.
"It's just makeup, Claudia." Your voice was soft, although detached in Claudia's eyes. "Don't let it define you."
"Oh. It's that easy, huh?" Her eyebrows shot up, egging you on in a sarcastic manner. She sat up in her seat, breathing heavily, hands placed firmly on the sides of the chair she sat on after uncrossing them.
More silence spread between the two of you. The only sounds came from the audience, entertained beyond belief at the various acts the coven put on for them.
Your face was blank, calmly looking over Claudia's defensive expression. You turned your head back to the mirror after a moment.
"You're not gonna say nothing?" Claudia asked while leaning forward more, bewilderment mixing with anger taking over her face. Her curled hair fell over her shoulders, hanging in the air while she awaited a response from you.
She waited for you to say something you couldn't take back. Something to confirm her suspicions that finding other vampires had been futile, and that no one in the coven truly respected her. But secretly, a small part of her craved your words to be the exact opposite. To find someone who could accept her -- to prove Lestat wrong.
To prove herself wrong.
You looked back at her, sitting up in your seat as well. Your eyebrows furrowed as you glanced to the wooden floor for a moment before looking back at Claudia. "It's not about them. It's about you. You deserve more than this bitterness... you know that don't you?"
Claudia's eyes widened slightly, a sense of ease replacing the heavy feeling in her chest. Her eyes scanned your face, looking for a lie, a ploy. Something to convince her to crawl back into her well-built safety net.
"Here," your voice cut through her thoughts. You reached forward for the makeup pads, grabbing a nearby makeup removal serum to place on them. "Let me help you, Claudia."
Her nails picked at the wooden chair she was sitting on. She let you wipe off the smudges, remove the ribbons from her hair -- bringing her back to clarity.
A sense of equality stemmed between you both. Claudia could almost feel her walls crumbling with each wipe of the makeup pads.
Summary: When stuck thinking about a world you're no longer a part of, Violet's there to remind you of a world that was created just for you.
I gotta step up cause no one writes for her anymore 😔
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
Afternoon sun spilled into the room and cascaded a long yellow gleam onto the floorboards. From years of sun damage -- caused by the open curtains that nobody ever fixed, and the angle of the sun at this exact time in the summer seasons -- the wooden floorboards had taken on a bleached look. Something that used to be a staple of the house's beauty now left to rot with the rest of it.
Your eyes followed the angled sun ray, watching it as it got narrower the further it went through the room. The peak of it hit the very bottom of the leather couch you laid on, which was covered in a thick plastic sheet. It was meant to protect the furniture in case of future buyers, but it's been over a decade since anyone (alive, that is) has lived here, so you doubt that it really matters now. It rustled under you whenever you shifted slightly. It reminded you of the paper sheet they use in doctor's offices, the ones that were left tattered after every patient sat on them.
Or maybe it was the squeaky sound it made that reminded you of something. Like how worn-down sneakers belonging to tired teenagers sounded when jogging through a school gym on a Monday morning.
But it didn't really matter. The only thing these comparisons really reminded you of was the fact that you thought too much about trivial things -- and reminisced about a life that you couldn't be a part of anymore.
The only thing that mattered now was the girl whose head was laying in your lap. The girl who had lightly slapped your hand when she realized you weren't paying attention to her speaking.
"Are you even listening?" She asked, sitting up -- the plastic moving under you both -- and leaning on her elbow. Her pin straight hair fell over her left shoulder, framing her face that held a scowl at you for ignoring her.
You sat up on your elbows, eyes scanning over her face. She looked the same as she did when she was alive. Acted the same too. It was rare to meet a ghost who was at all similar to how they used to be. But that was Violet for you -- always the black sheep in every situation.
"Sorry." An apology came from your mouth, one of the many in this relationship. But what can you expect from fucked up dead teenagers?
"Jus' thinking about things." Your voice, again. It was difficult for your mind to catch up with your mouth sometimes, something you had grown accustomed to since dying. It never used to happen when you were alive though.
Violet's expression blanks, the scowl making its temporary exit. She glanced over at the sun beams, which were now shifted slightly due to the sun moving. "Your thoughts are more interesting than my cheesy story, huh?" She joked, the familiar sarcastic tone present in her voice. Her fingers began picking at loose strands on the sleeves of her cardigan, her nails chipped with old polish.
Right. Her story. Some cringy thing that happened when she still lived in Boston. She had been talking about it as if it was a fond memory, but you knew her. She just needed something to pass the time. It was futile though -- time doesn't stop for things like you.
You smiled anyway. "No, no. Sorry," another sorry, "keep talking." The words left your mouth, causing Violet to pause for a moment before continuing her story. Her storytelling was interesting enough. With her randomly thrown in curses and rants about people or things that annoyed her.
But what mainly caught your eye this time was the way the sun hit her face. That afternoon glow hitting the right side of her perfectly. Her brown eyes turned hazel, gold and green making appearances. Her hair looked more blond than ever. Memories of seeing her leave for school -- decades ago at this point -- back when she was still alive and had just moved here. Seeing her in the front lawn with her dad or with their old dog. Leaning on the doorframe of her bedroom, seeing her smile at you from across the room.
Making up new events as well. Seeing her at the beach, sand sticking to your skin and salt invading your nose. Walking through a music store, listening to her ramble about Morrissey and flipping through overpriced albums. Making fun of people buying mainstream music, blatantly ignoring the popularity of our own music tastes.
"Why do I even bother talking if you're not going to listen?" A frustrated voice broke through your thoughts. "Y'know, it hurts when you don't pay attention to me. I need you to be present." Her voice was softer when she said that. Vulnerable.
You shake your head slightly, looking away from her. "I was just... imagining shit." Your eyebrows raised slightly, a tight smile on your face as you looked back at her. Looking for forgiveness and for her to continue on with her stories of Boston.
But instead, you're met with concern. She seemed worried. Normally, she'd say something sarcastic, maybe cuss you out a bit, and then continue on like it's nothing. She doesn't have the energy to fight about something like this anyway. She's already not on speaking terms with some of the ghosts here, she doesn't need you pissed off too.
But no. She's worried. Your face dropped, hers narrowed. She sat up fully. Her legs were crossed, bare knees poking out from under her dark dress. "You can talk to me, you know."
You sat up. Your mind was still clouded with thoughts. Your head was a melting pot of memories and made-up fantasies. Your childhood, the high school you were never able to graduate from, the life you and the girl in front of you deserved to be able to live together.
She was back to picking at the strands on her cardigan. Tying random pieces into knots, pulling them apart, starting all over again. Her eyes shifted from her hands and back towards your face.
You opened your mouth, but this time nothing came out. You moved slightly, the plastic squeaked. Neither of you paid any mind to it. You crossed your arms, glancing down at the see-through material that exposed the old black leather of the couch.
"I just keep thinking about it." It. That's what we called the world outside of the house. The world that had forgotten us years ago. The one that wrote us off as tragic cases of teenagers in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Your voice was low. You looked up at her, seeing her face blank again. Unreadable. The sun is almost gone now. It had passed you both and was now situated in the furthest corner of the room.
"Don't be stupid." Her voice cut through the air. It was sharp but held a logical sense to it. She didn't want you to hurt yourself desiring something you can't have. "I wish I could tell you that it's going to happen, but we need to focus on what we have here." Is it obvious that we've had this conversation before?
But still, she was right. She seemed to always be right. Although it hurt knowing we'd be here forever, unable to grow up, unable to leave, we had to remain realistic. Hoping for something that was impossible would only make things worse.
"I mean, unless you found a magic spell that would bring us back to life or some shit." She laughed at her own comment. Even after everything that had happened to her, her humor never strayed.
You smiled, her laughter getting louder when she saw it. She moved closer to you, the sound of the plastic making both of you breakout in fits of laughter, unable to ignore the sound anymore.
She rested her head on your shoulder, your uneven laughs continuing to fill the semi-empty living room you both sat in. You leaned back, watching the sun finally leave the room. Violet leaned in closer, a smile on her pale face. A genuine one at that, no sarcasm in sight.
The lonely reality of being dead will always eat away at you. You'll always miss everything you once had, always resent the circumstances that took them away. You'll always fear forgetting about things that mean so much to you -- fear losing yourself to the insanity brought on by being stuck in a timeless loop of murder.
But you'll also have her by your side. The weirdest girl you've ever met that accepted her own death years before it even occurred. The girl who remained the same in death, and the girl who understands you better than anyone else in the shitty world you two share.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
this is kinda ass but it's okay for my first post lol
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