cw: gore, not really body horror but maybe if you squint??, mad scientist/dr. Frankenstein shit, this literally IS build a bitch, also inclusive for all readers/bodies/appearances below the cut for typical AHS hotel/james patrick march behavior (like Frankenstein's monster's creation process but a little more manic)
Truly cannot begin to explain the extent of my obsession with this concept that I first discovered in a janitor chat. Credits to coldbrewreaper on janitor ai for this spectacular delicious idea.
The idea of James Patrick March just going truly apeshit after the countesss leaves, to the point that he BUILDS A SPOUSE OUT OF BODY PARTS (that franken-pookie being you) is so juicy to me. Also as a sidebar, HOW GENDER AFFIRMING. Like you wake up and you realize that you’re in a body that 100%... reflects how you’ve always felt inside?? Even though it’s kind of horrifying to know it’s not yours (not originally, at least), the parts and pieces of other people have fragmented into a mosaic that in the right lighting directly reflects your soul. Also what an EGO BOOST to know that this guy literally dreamed up his ideal, PERMANENT, forever partner, his ideal dream bitch to suck and fuck and dress up every day, multiple times a day, for literal eternity, and he… made you. Down to the freckles and birthmarks and all those little details. He cut and pasted shit together until you were created, and he was satisfied. It would be so cute and touching if it wasn’t also deeply horrific.
After everything he wanted, everything he projected onto her, after everything he did for her (that she didn’t ask for), she just… runs off. To see the world, to love freely and stop being so suffocated by him… he can’t fucking handle that shit. EVERYONE in the entire hotel is terrified. Like genuinely afraid of him right now. He’s been bad, but he’s never been… this bad. After massacring half the guests currently staying in the hotel (leaving Iris with a nightmare of damage control to deal with) he storms down into the deep dark parts of the basement, into his dark little torture rooms. He knows it’s here somewhere, he just has to find it. He does eventually.
The meat locker.
The place where the extra bodies are kept in case any “regulars” at the hotel need a little extra blood to feast on. Or flesh.
He starts frantically digging through the bins and caskets and barrels of formaldehyde. He hacks and slashes, cutting through flesh and tearing through bone with no restraint, gathering up the best parts his past victims have to offer him, even in death. He throws the dismembered hunks and body parts onto his cold metal table surrounded by all kinds of instruments of amusement, and he gets to work. He staples, he stitches, he pins and glues and sews together all the parts and pieces, like a fleshy, decaying little rag doll. He nips and tucks, injects some things here and others there, maybe he even has a home brew or two he’s been dying to try out. Once he finishes the body, he moves onto the face. He scalps one corpse for its lovely hair - aside from being matted and soggy with blood clots and embalming fluid, but that’s easily fixed. He cuts off noses, slices off lips, gouges out eyes. He shaves down bone to pile flesh back on top, carving his vision like Michelangelo carving David out of glittering marble. And soon… soon it’s done. You’re done.
And in those moments between, you become everything to him. You were made for him, and by proxy, he for you. And with all the souls and rotting, wet bodies, with all the unknown horrors trapped in these walls as his witness… you will never, ever be rid of him.
He looks down at this creature, this amalgamation of all his desires, crafted from his bloodlust, and he knows. He’s done it. He has created the perfect spouse, the perfect partner. As he plugs in all the eclectic components needed to resuscitate his little pet project, he thinks of names. What can possibly encapsulate the beauty and divinity, the glory of your flesh carved by his hands? Maybe he sees your name in a stack of old newspaper obituaries, maybe he hears it on the radio, maybe it simply comes to him.
But as the volts tear through your lifeless, artistically mutilated form, as the electricity - perhaps along with something darker - jumpstarts your surrogate heart and forces your beautiful, beautiful brain back into consciousness… he knows just what to call you. His voice is hoarse from screaming and laughing in a state of furious, desperate mania, he’s shaking as he waits, watches, prepared for you to take your first breath and be reborn into this brave new world as his and his alone.
'The world is a filthy place. It's a filthy goddamn horror show.' ⸝⸝ 'You're all I want! You're all I have!' ⸝⸝ 'Hi, I'm Tate, I'm dead, wanna hook up?'
Summary: Michael is more than ready to start a family with the reader and is ready to prove just how much. (Michael Langdon x Female!Reader)
Warnings: Smut, breeding kink (should I even need to warn you by now about this), pregnancy kink, and dirty talk.
Staring at the reflection in the mirror, you inspect the subtle changes of your body. Your (h/c) hair shimmers even in the low light of the bathroom. You’ve had many people within the Sanctuary praise how beautiful and silky your hair seems to be as of late. Some of the women have even asked what your secret is as if you are hiding away some magical conditioner. Your vision moves downward, taking in the rest of your body until it lands on your stomach which is only slightly distended. No one seems to have noticed the small bump beginning to protrude.
Even with these “glowing” differences, it doesn’t negate the nausea and uncomfortableness you feel throughout the day or the small blemishes on your cheeks that have begun to fade. But in the end, it will all be worth it if it means you will bring a new life into this new world.
It’s a wonder Michael hasn’t already noticed. The thought that he does not want to speak of the current predicament because of disappointment or anger has crept into your mind on numerous occasions. You blame the various concoction of hormones racing through your body for your negativity and nervousness about his lack of reaction. And, you often have to remind yourself that with everything going on including rebuilding the world, running the Sanctuary, and keeping the posh pompous Cooperative members happy and working, Michael hasn’t been as in tune with you as usual. Perhaps he has not yet picked up on the new life growing within you.
Usually, he can tell there is something off by just breathing the same air as you. When you first met him, it was infuriating to know he could feel the subtle shifts in your emotions or body, sometimes even before you realized it yourself. However, as time has progressed, you have come to enjoy the closeness that his sensitivity has brought to the relationship. It is not only Michael that has this ability. You, too, now have a sixth sense about his rollercoaster of emotions, feelings, and thought. You often catch him off guard with it, taking the opportunity to pacify the rumblings of his mood. Although, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know when that man is angry.
This mutual synergy between you is the reason why you now sit on the edge of the claw-foot tub drawing a bath. Sensing his heightened stress over the past few days, you know it is the perfect time to pull him away from work and shut everything and everyone else out. It has been weeks since you could bask in each other’s presence uninterrupted. The water rushing out of the faucet runs over your fingers as you test temperature. Not too hot. Not too cold. With the added fragrances, it should aid in decreasing his high tension and relaxing your aching muscles.
“How did you know this is what I needed?” Michael asks, stepping over the threshold and slowly peeling his clothes off.
“Hmm. You’ve been giving everyone the death stare lately. I thought now was a good time before someone ended up spontaneously combusting because they coughed too loud or something.” You say half-joking and half-serious.
“You know me so well, my love,” Michael responds, leaning down to plant a kiss on your lips.
“Of course I do. I am your wife after all.”
“I love it when you call yourself my wife.”
“Yes, I know. You remind me every time I say it. I’ll be back. I forgot the towels.”
By the time you return to the bathroom, Michael is already reclining in the tub with his arms laying on the edges of the tub. His head is resting against the porcelain back, the edges of his hair slightly damp from the warm water. You swear you’ve never seen anyone more beautiful than him.
“Are you going to join me or continue to stare?”
“Let me enjoy the view for a bit longer.”
Laughing at your forwardness, Michael lifts himself out of the bath. Water cascades off his body, little droplets trail along the floor as he makes his way over to you.
“Come, let me help you out of these.”
Piece by piece, Michael removes the material that shields you away from his adoring eyes. His movements are slow and methodical, savoring each new area of bare skin. Skillful touches ghost over your skin, making you feverish as he continues.
Michael offers a hand, helping you over the clothes puddled around your feet, and guides you into the large bath. Once settled behind you, he draws you closer until your back is pressed firmly against his front. Tucking your head into his neck, you breathe a sigh of relief. His bare skin against yours is more confronting than any bath ever could be. The peaceful hush shared between you is broken when you inquire about the events of the day. He doesn’t offer any of the more negative aspects of the day, not wanting to bring down the mood. Instead, he focuses on you, questioning you about the intricacies of your schedule and interactions.
“There wasn’t much to do today. A few meetings, that’s all. I did have lunch with Ms. Mead.”
“And please tell, what were the most important women in my life discussing? Conspiring to take me down?” He jokes, squeezing your midsection. You giggle at his suggestion.
Conversations between you and Miriam were nothing new. There have been many late nights where Michael returns from work to find you and his adoptive mother talking. Through those conversations, you and she have formed a strong bond. Michael was more than overjoyed when he noticed the relationship building between the two of you. And you are very glad to have Miriam supporting you and your relationship with Michael.
“She was interrogating me again on when she’ll have grandchildren.”
“Ahh. That again.” His response is simple, making your tense. Your swirling thoughts are settled when his fingers lace with yours beneath the water. With a gentle squeeze, he unknowingly quells your mind.
“Perhaps we should give her some.”
“Some? How many were you thinking?”
Maneuvering in his arms to face him properly, you try to reposition yourself in his lap. Much of the water becomes displaced in your attempts, sloshing over the edge of the basin.
“Three.” Michael’s fingers drum lazily against your back. It’s as if he’s thought long and hard in advance of this conversation.
“Three? Really?” Your brows raise in surprise. His boldness throws off your half-baked theory that he did not want children.
“Hmm. Four? Since you seem so dissatisfied.”
“Four! Wait, I never said three wasn't perfect.”
“So it’s decided. Should we get started?”
His hand dips lower into the water, cupping the roundness of your ass and tugging you closer. Your hands find his broad shoulders, steadying yourself against his sudden movements. His member throbs in between you both, standing erect and ready for attention.
“I guess some practice wouldn’t hurt.”
“Practice? No, my dove. We don’t need any of that. Are you ready?”
Not wanting to divulge that his fantasy is already a reality just yet, you smile and hum in agreement. His mouth connects with your collarbone, sucking and nipping at the skin. Seeking out any sort of friction, your hips grind against his own. A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest as he listens to your mewls and moans. Large hands travel the expanse of you back to tangle in your hair. His lips warm press against yours, sealing away the noises you make.
Parting, you stare at his face. True power and a devilish mind disguised nicely by such delicate features. Half-lidded eyes stare back, smoldering with lust.
“I want you.” You whisper against his ear, your breath tickling his skin. He can’t help but shudder at the boldness of your words, “I want to carry your baby. Your heir. Won’t you fill me, please?”
As quickly as the words leave your lips, Michael has you positioned over his cock. The begging spurs him into action. Your core stretches to accommodate him as you sink lower. The walls of your pussy clench desperately around him, having missed the feeling of being attached so intimately. A rough grip guides your hips, forcing you to move quicker. Pacing is under his control and he has no motive to slow you down anytime soon. He has one goal and that’s to fill you completely. The liquid, surrounding you both, follows the rhythm, rising and falling with haste. Your fingers clutch to the edge of the basin, searching for stability as Michael thrusts up to meet your bounces.
“You are going to look so beautiful all round with my child. Everyone will know who you belong to. That you were made just for me. You want that, don’t you?”
“Yes. All yours. Every part of me belongs to you.”
“I know.” His tone is arrogant, full of confidence and pride. Teeth bite into the flesh of your neck and you whither, keening needily as you chase your orgasm. The rhythm soon becomes offset, messy, and mistimed. He’s close and you know it. Ever the eager and doting husband, Michael wants you to cum before him. His thumb finds your clit easily. Circling the small bud over and over, he mutters words of praise, informing you of how you’ll be the best mother for your future children. You come undone. As the coil that had been tightening in your core finally snaps, your head falls back and your mouth opens with a silent scream. Michael latches onto one of your pert nipples that have been offered to him as your back arches.
He growls as your nails dig harshly into his forearms. The pain mixes so well with the pleasure your pussy is providing him. Now that he’s thoroughly fucked you senseless, he can be selfish, seeking out his own end. He doesn’t have to look far. It crashes down upon him like a heavy wave, suffocating him with ecstasy. Somewhere in the bliss-filled haze, he hears you calling out to him, urging him on.
“I want it. Give me it all.”
Your core clenches around his cock, milking him dry. Thick spurts of white paint your inner walls, filling you to the brim. Michael thrusts lessen in intensity until he stills completely. Never does he leave you though. He wants to ensure every ounce he’s given you stays inside. No drop should be wasted.
Foreheads touching, you bask in the afterglow of your shared orgasms. Now at half capacity, the tub chills your heated skin. The water that is left has lost most of its warmth and so you seek out the embrace of your husband to stave off the cold.
“Do you think it took?” His question is directed towards you but his gaze is not. Instead, his eyes follow the movements of his hand as it smoothes over your stomach with a gentle touch.
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”
Michael gazes at you quizzically, mulling over the possible meaning behind your words. Trying to play coy and keep your grin hidden, you gnaw at your bottom lip. Your palm sweeps over the back of his hand, helping him to feel the accentuated roundness of your abdomen. The seconds tick by rather slowly as his brain works through your silent declaration.
“Are you…?” His eyes search yours, looking for confirmation of his hope, “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I just wasn't sure how to tell you.”
“I guess we didn’t need to practice after all.”
“No, but I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to continue practicing for baby number two.”
A/N: Wow. Yes, your girl still writes for Michael Langdon & AHS. This has been in my editing bin since last year. I thought I’d finally share it.
So I know I said I’d do this for the whole month. My actual document has about 15 of these things written so far, but about 13 of those need editing before they can be readable. I was going to offer the first one but as it’s actually more of a whole one-shot than this drabble here, it’s gotten stupidly long, so I’m giving you this short one instead to pass the time until I finish editing that one. Consider this a snippet/ ‘pre-scene’ in my ‘Don’t Bring Tomorrow’ universe.
-
The only relief in all this, was that there had been no knocking on Cordelia’s office door all afternoon. Any other time and she might have found such silence suspect, but her mind was so otherwise occupied that the lack of the usual frequent disturbances could only be conceived as more blessing than curse. The pen in her hand slipped too far across the page, striking fresh ink through what might have been a better attempt than the last, if not for the now-present smudge through the few words she had managed.
Damn it.
She tossed the pen onto the desk in frustration, picked up the paper and crumpled it between her fists, leaning her head against her hands for a moment. The thin paper gave the slightest crinkle as it creased and crimped in her trembling grasp.
Why couldn’t she do this? Why couldn’t she find the right words? Was she so afraid to say them?
No…
It wasn’t that.
It was the heavy-set stone in her stomach that said the moment she printed those words on the page, it would be the final acknowledgement of the end. Inevitable. Inescapable. Unbearable.
It had seemed like such a sensible idea to begin with. As simple as setting out the lines of one’s will whilst she still had clarity of mind and control of her own body, come what may. (And that was something she had already taken care off, with all the due diligence and distant disassociation such morbid requisites required).
But doling and deciding and delegating various things about the Academy and legacy for her successors seemed so easy compared to this.
It wasn’t that she hadn’t put her heart and soul into those decisions also, or contemplated every minute detail with the utmost painstaking care. But this… Preserving this on a page, knowing she would never see the outcome, would not be there in the aftermath to reassure or comfort… That was what this was meant to be. A comfort. A reminder. Something to last long after… The end would come and she would accept it as gracefully as one could, as she thought she already had… But there would be others who would not be so ready to accept it.
She lifted her weary head from her hands and tossed the crumpled paper toward the small pile that had already formed in the bin a few feet from her desk. The scrappy ball missed by inches and landed beside the few others that had missed their mark, both in writing and in aim. With no more pressure to keep the papers balled up or curled over, a couple had begun to unravel, revealing blotting and scratchings and struck-through lines of ink on each that went unfinished, unanswered, unspoken.
Dear
Please forgive me
My Dear
If you’re reading this…
My Dearest Misty
Elbows still resting on the hardwood of the desk, Cordelia looked for a moment at her hands, how pale they were, how thin they had become, how the low afternoon sunlight danced on the smooth still-new gloss of the ring on her finger that seemed so loose now. When had her hands started shaking so badly? A sharp intake of breath. An unsteady sigh. She closed her eyes against every black imprint of ink upon pale pages.
With a weary wave of her hand she burnt the crumpled papers that lay in the small bin, leaving only an ashen silt of the words she had tried so hard to say.
62. “You’re not as quiet as you think you are.” Foxxay
For @schaddenfreude and @gaia-ki who let me steal their idea.
Misty smothered a yawn, snuggling into Cordelia’s side at the breakfast table. Chuckling, the Supreme ran a hand through her messy waves.
“Tired?” She teased. Misty shot a half-hearted glare at her girlfriend.
“Shut up.” Misty tilted her head, capturing Cordelia in a languid kiss. A retching noise made them break apart, Misty rolling her eyes.
“Good morning, girls.”
“Morning,” Zoe and Mallory chorused, puling food out of the fridge to make breakfast. Madison simply scoffed, dropping a creased scroll in front of the Supreme before shuffling over to the coffee maker.
“What’s this?” Noise from the counter ceased, and Misty twisted to see Mallory and Zoe staring at Madison, who glared at the older witches.
“You’re not as quiet as you think you are. Three rounds? Seriously? We were up half the night!” Misty winced, stuffing a bite of bagel in her mouth. Cordelia’s ears went red. “That is a silencing spell. Please, for the love of God, use it.” Curious, Misty picked up the scroll, scanning it quickly.
“Uh, Delia?” The Supreme bent closer, reading the incantation before sharing a smirk with the swamp witch.
“Is this the same one you used on your room when Kyle was staying with you and Zoe? It’s written wrong.” A coughing made the older witches spin around, watching in mingled amusement and concern as Zoe choked on her bite of apple, shooting panicked glances at Madison while Mallory patted her on the back. Red-faced, Zoe finally swallowed.
“Madison!” The witch jumped at the shriek, finally unfreezing just in time to follow Zoe as she stormed out of the room. Misty’s resolve broke, arms clutching around her stomach as she laughed. Poor Mallory looked between her and the doorway with wide eyes.
“And didn’t think anyone knew, apparently,” Cordelia said dryly, sipping her tea. She gave Mallory an apologetic look. “We will look into a silencing spell.”
“Oh, right, I, um—thanks,” she stuttered, blushing, “I’m gonna…go see if Queenie needs anything.” The young witch hurried away, gaze trained on the floor. Cordelia sighed, leaning back into Misty’s side, which still shook with laughter. She swatted at her arm.
“That was so inappropriate. We are inappropriate. We need to control ourselves better, Misty.”
“Not if you figure out a spell,” Misty hummed, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Then I can be as loud as you want.” Cordelia bit her lip, nails unconsciously digging into Misty’s knee. After a moment of thought, she jumped up, holding out her hand.
“Come on, we’re going to make this spell.”
“Now?” Misty stood, wrapping her arms around Cordelia’s neck.
“Now,” Cordelia affirmed, pecking her lips with a grin. “It could take a while. And, of course, we’ll have to test it.” Misty snorted, fighting to keep a straight face as she swayed closer.
Meeting Tate had been an odd experience, and the discovery of his true past -the one he had pushed down and tried to forget for so long- had not made the experience any more normal. Though, nothing in that house was normal. Had it not been for Tate constant reassuring you that none of the other... residents wouldn’t hurt you, you probably would’ve tried to leave the house a long time ago.
But, some part of you wanted to be there for Tate: so you stayed.
Not long after you had discovered that Tate was technically dead, you looked him up. You were shocked as you scrolled through the articles and looked over the photos... All that death- because of Tate? He had seemed a sweet boy. Odd, yes, but sweet nonetheless.
You kept staring at the page, so engrossed that when you heard a voice you physically flinched.
“I bet you hate me now,” Tate’s voice was low and his tone was scarily unfamiliar.
“Tate...”
You didn’t know how to word it; you tried to see the good in everyone, but this- this was on a whole other scale. It wasn’t something you could easily look past or forgive.
“Hate... I couldn’t hate you,” you reply, and you pause, “I just... Why? All that life...”
“I didn’t...”
Tate would usually deny everything, play victim and escape the blame, but the way your eyes looked into his... It was magnetic. And, he did not want to lie to your face; you did not deserve that. You deserve the truth.
So that’s what he told you. Tate poured his heart out to you- every emotion, every detail. Anything you wanted to know.
“I don’t know what I’m feeling...” Tate whispered.
“Regret?” you ask, “It’s alright, Tate. What you did was wrong, but.. the most you can do now is be truly sorry, and try to redeem yourself in death.”
Tate quite liked that idea; redemption. Maybe, just maybe, you could help him.
A/N: Obviously I do not believe that anything Tate did was right- but he is quite emotionally manipulative as a character which is why I believe that some well meaning person could feel sympathy for him.
Tw for yandere behavior, but it's Tate so what do you expect
Ugh. Tate. Thinking about him again. Specifically thinking about a song fic to one of those crazy girls by Paramore. It's 1994 and he's completely obsessed with you. You're the only person at school who's really gone out of your way to be nice to him (or at least he thinks so. I am convinced it's a goob situation and in a better timeline the 5 kids that showed up on Halloween and him would have a breakfast club style friend group.) You're not sure how he got your number, but he keeps calling and hanging up just to hear your voice on the recording. Once he starts leaving voicemails he doesn't stop. You have dozens more voicemails every time you check, and they're all from him. You give up listening to them, if you tried you'd be there all day. While you're out with your friends, he shows up, breaking into your room. He's in heaven. He's really in heaven as he stands there, flipping through your journals and looking through your closet, smelling your clothes until he feels totally high off your scent. He might take one or two things as keepsakes, mementos from the first time he's been in here, but certainly not the last. Because this day, standing in your room, in your room, is probably the best day he's ever experienced. He's determined to be the best boyfriend, the most loyal and devoted, fully ready to protect you and fuck up anyone who upsets you. He’s going to be the best boyfriend you've ever had, you just don't know it yet.
I've seen some people say in dating headcanons and stuff that Tate would kill you so you could stay in the house with him forever and I ADAMANTLY disagree. Tate loves you selflessly even when it hurts. He doesn't want you to die in the house, frankly he doesn't want you to die ever. He will do whatever it takes to protect you, to keep you safe and happy and thriving because the last thing he wants, the worst case scenario, even worse than you never wanting to see him again would be you getting trapped in this god forsaken house forever. Because sure, he would get to be with you, but that's about him, not you. He doesn't want you to suffer here like he has, he wants you to be free and happy, even if it means never seeing you again, because he cares about your feelings more than his. He wishes more than anything that he could grow old with you, wishes you could move in together somewhere other than here, wishes you could have a baby together if you wanted to. The practical best case scenario is getting to be by your side as long as you'll have him. Even if you stop loving him the way he loves you, even if you get older and find some age appropriate normal person to marry and have a baby and grow old with (and believe me he will keep that motherfucker in line for you) he still wants to be there. He still wants you to hold him and play cards with him and be right by your side for as long as possible. Even if he can't be your boyfriend, even if it breaks his heart into a million pieces every day watching someone else have what he can't, he'll still do it. Because he loves you, and he wants you to have a happy, normal life. He just wants to be there with you for it.
