A/N - Spoilers! This story contains (television and internet) spoilers so if you want to be completely surprised please do not read.
This is a sequel to Be My Frankenstein - it can stand on its own but makes a lot more sense if you have read the previous story. I wish it were a bit better/more polished/I had more time to work with it but I wanted to post before the airing of the episode tonight (which will probably blow all of my ideas here to smithereens) so here it is.
Zoe/Kyle - Rated M
Disclaimer - I do not own American Horror Story.. just the idea for this little fic is mine.
"Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful."– Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
It was the third time in two weeks that he had come to her bloodied. Not in his own blood. It was that of someone else splattered in shimmering droplets on his face, in his hair, clothes soaked in it. And as he striped out of the destroyed garments, sliding under her blankets as she lifted them in offering, he coated her bare breasts with gore, ruining another set of sheets. She would burn them in the lonely basement furnace as she had with the others.
Zoe knew she should have been upset, worried, biting her lip and panicking quietly, but she wasn't. Kyle was hers, her creation, and he had compulsions that no amount of love or patience or understanding could rehabilitate.
The people that he killed, tore limb from limb, axed open, splitting their skulls and rendering their bodies little more than piecemeal, were collateral damage to their happiness. And that should have made her sick. It didn't. It made her sad. Otherwise she was largely indifferent. As long as Kyle didn't get caught, wasn't seen or identified. He was legally dead, buried weeks earlier in a small green graveyard of some outer parish, filled with moldering headstones, a statue of a weeping angel standing guard near by.
She had attended the funeral, face stoic and dry, as the others mourned. Kyle's mother, a small, blond, bird-boned woman clutching a white lace handkerchief, dropped to her knees at the side of the hole as they lowered his casket. Body parts had been mislaid by the coroner, or so the news channels reported. The coffin was nearly empty. Only chunks of meat remained of Kyle Spencer when she and Madison had finished their work. The pieces of him that were too far gone, pulverized and unusable. But what did it matter? That place, his final resting place, was a lie. He was with her, where he truly belonged.
But fuck, she couldn't help thinking that she was awful. That she, herself, was the monster. Not Kyle. After all that she had done. All that she knew she would do, to protect him, to keep him.
Kyle felt regret for what he did, an ache building inside of him. Zoe on the other hand never regretted breathing life, or some approximation of it, back into her boy. No matter what he did with it after.
"Zoe," he half wheezed, half sobbed, mouth hot and tacky, wet, on her throat.
It was his only word, her name. But he could say it a thousand different ways, each with its own meaning. Sometimes he said it with such love, eyes shining, palm over her wildly beating heart. Other times it was a needy prayer coming from deep within him as her lips worked, slipping and sliding, over his cock.
And then, that time, it was an apology. Something heartfelt and broken. He didn't want to do the things that he did, not really. It was a compulsion that drove him to it. The urge to seen bodies torn, rent apart, as his had been before she sewed it back together. To see how he had appeared before opening his eyes to a new life.
"Shhh," she hushed, fingers combing through his mangled, sticky mane. "I know."
"Zoe," he repeated, voice reverential, eyes large and sweet.
Her nose bumped his in an eskimo kiss as she breathed, "You don't mean it."
Kyle had accepted her, with all of her faults, her inability to ever love him fully and wholly with her body, and she accepted him in the same way, without reservation.
He nodded, hands wrapping around her waist, drawing her closer to his quivering naked body, lips forming words that his throat couldn't utter. Then, "Zoe," that way that made her insides melt, her body flush with heat right at her core. She kissed him with tongue and teeth, soft lips and humid air shared between them. They could wash the blood from their skin tomorrow, in the harsh light of day. The night, that was a time for being close, for holding one another, for acceptance and forgiveness.
She had discovered the power by accident. Kyle could be clumsy, over eager, and he was infinitely stronger than he looked, than he had been when he was alive. He had marked her with his lips, his teeth, drawing blood but never really injuring her. Hands bruising, muscles stretched, pulled too tight, but nothing serious. On that night though he had come to her in a state, eyes black and haunted. And in his haste, his need for her, he had lifted her carelessly, body like a ragdoll in his arms, and backed Zoe up into the wall, knocking her head into a sconce and splitting the taut skin just above her temple. It looked worse than it was, but blood soaked her hair, ran down her face in a matter of moments, terrifying the boy holding her.
With her legs still wound around his hips, hot aching center heating the bare patch of skin above his belt, he spun, eyes wild, and delicately deposited her on the bed as if she were made of glass.
Kyle appeared on the verge of tears, a breakdown. She soothed him, licking the crimson wetness from her lips, "It's fine." Her hands caressed his back as she repeated with more emphasis, "I'm fine."
He grunted in reply, dropping to his knees beside the mattress, still between her thighs. And the strange thing was that as she had said it, she was fine. The throb, the heat, pulsing through the side of her skull abated immediately.
With a tentative hand she reached up, felt for the knick, the wound that had brought forth all of that blood but there was nothing. Only a small mass of damp, messy hair.
She didn't tell Madison or Cordelia about it and she certainly did not want Fiona to know. Any sign of additional powers would draw attention to her and more eyes focused on her was the last thing Zoe needed.
But she experimented, tried to understand it on her own, what had happened, what she had done. Kyle refused to help after the first couple of times, shaking his head violently, gaze simmering, palm over her heart. He cared too much, couldn't bring himself to harm her on purpose even when she asked him to. And she couldn't blame him. She understood guilt, pain over hurting the thing you loved most. She felt it everyday: the bus, the spell, her boy's inability to return to his old life, the wreckage that was his new one. It cut her deeply, made her ache and sob when she spent too much time thinking about it.
Those thoughts were only quiet when they were together and became nearly non-existent when she was cradled in his arms, her mouth on his throat, his fingers buried deep inside of her.
None-the-less she was left slashing her own wrists, burning the pale flesh of her thighs with a rotting candle, to watch the skin knit closed, scab, scar, and turn pristine again in a matter of a few seconds. As he sat hunched, observing, ever watchful, Kyle would tug at his hair, fingers raking through the mass of loose curls frantically, brutally.
Could she survive death as Misty Day had done? The image of slashing her throat painted the insides of her eyelids.
Her gift was renewal of living flesh. The other girl could breathe life into death. As she had done with Kyle. But unlike Misty, Zoe could not make the once dead whole again, bring them back entirely. Kyle's existence was based in magic, it revived him, kept him with her, sustained him. But it did not truly return life to his form.
She practiced on his stitches, tested her theory. No fresh pink flesh appeared. The seams if her boy did not heal or vanish. Instead he stared down at her with captivated eyes, lips lush and damp as he wetted them.
"I can't do it," she sighed, on the verge of tears, beyond frustrated. "Kyle," she cupped his jaw, thumb brushing over the sharp line of his cheekbone. He nudged his face into her hand, rubbing against it, like a cat looking for affection.
She could kill men with her cunt and she could heal her own body, maybe even the living tissues of others. But she could do nothing for the dead. It was a cruel fucking joke. She could take life but not give it.
"Zoe," he whispered and the tone of his voice told her that he didn't mind not being entirely whole, that she couldn't fix him completely, make him how he was that night they met. The night everything changed. "Zoe," he repeated and she kissed him. And maybe she was even worse than she had previously believed because a sudden and unexpected thrill of happiness shot through her then, knowing that she would never have to share him, that he was and would always be only hers. Her creation.
"He came back wrong!" Madison's shrill voice rent the still, muggy air as dust moats carried in the wind, lit by the bevy of gas lamps filling the space. Recently the other girl had been lingering, watching, gaze cold and flinty. Zoe had attempted to stay out of her way, avoided her in the house. The only feeling her former friend inspired in her was one of distinct discomfort, a hollow emptiness where some sort of affection once resided.
There was a wicked glint in Madison's eyes. She was jealous. Always had been, Zoe knew. Right from the moment Kyle awoke, shaking and shivering, in her arms, the other girl standing aside, forgotten.
"Stop it!" Zoe shrieked. Kyle watched with wide but impassive eyes from beside the blanket covered mattress he had not slept on for weeks, preferring the comfort and warmth of her bed downstairs.
"He's a monster!" Light shimmered, bouncing off the blade of a knife, something from the kitchen butcher's block, nothing so ceremonial as a curved dagger, like the first weapon Zoe had seen in her hand. "And like a rabid dog, he needs to be put down."
"No!" she shook with rage. And even as she was moving, trying to put herself between Madison and her boy, the knife cut through the air, moving with unmistakable precision. She was controlling it with her mind Zoe realized too late, as the blade hit home, striking Kyle between his chest and shoulder, just above his heart.
He grunted, groaned, hand clutching at the protruding handle as he staggered forward, toward her, mouth hanging open. Zoe's eyes filled with tears. This was not how the story was supposed to end. With her losing everything. With Madison triumphant.
"Kyle," she reached for him with trembling hands as her vision blurred, knees going weak.
"Zoe," he coughed, anguish in his voice. She expected to see blood on his lips, oozing down the front of his t-shirt, but both were dry, unmarred, as he barreled past her, lumbering with before unknown speed, at their mutual foe.
Madison had barely time to think, let alone move, to toss useless objects at him with her power, before Kyle had her in his arms, hands on either side of her skull.
Zoe debated calling out, yelling for him to stop, but couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead she stared into the other girl's panic stricken, surprised face as Kyle twisted, jerked once. The cracking noise bounced off of the attic walls, reverberating, sounding loud to her ears, even though it likely wasn't. And then the body of Madison Montgomery, movie star, crumpled to the dirty floor in a heap, hair fanned across the wooden boards. She was so small, fragile, lying there with her eyes open and blank.
When Zoe finally managed to glance up, her eyes searching Kyle as her heart thumped painfully in her chest, trying to beat its way past her ribs, the knife was still sheathed in his body. His gaze was fixed on the floor, arms loose at his sides, fingers curled.
His head snapped upward suddenly catching her terrified gaze and he immediately started to shake his head, curls tossing back and forth, dipping into his eyes. He brushed his vision clear, took a step toward her and nearly tripped over the body in the process.
For the first time Zoe felt relief, maybe even a touch of happiness, that Nan was dead. The girl would have known, heard, sensed what was happening. But as it was, with Cordelia long gone, lost, and the house quiet, still, all they would need to do was wait for nightfall. Then Madison could be taken down to the rear gardens, buried, and forgotten.
"Zoe," Kyle's rough voice cracked. And she realized belatedly that he was scared her terror was over her friend's death. In reality it had everything to do with the fucking butcher's knife sticking out of his chest. He was still moving, tumbling, falling to his knees at her feet. His fingers clutched at her skirt. "Zoe," tears choked him.
Shaking her own head Zoe tried to snap herself out of her fear induced stupor, to comfort Kyle, to help him. The blade needed to be removed, the wound examined, the damage treated. Was he running on pure adrenaline? She studied him, hands quaking, wondering if the moment she held him, took him in her arms, his life would begin to ebb away. And would it be possible to resurrect him again, alone, when he was twice dead?
Bile burned her throat as she fought to remain composed. With burning cheeks and trembling lips, droplets of salt water dripping down onto her chest, slowly soaking her white silk blouse, Zoe mumbled, "Kyle," her hand reaching out to stroke his hair. He tilted his face up to look at her and she attempted to smile but it felt false, weak and wobbly, "we have to," she gestured, "the knife," a sob threatening to escape.
Kyle merely grunted in response, standing awkwardly. His fingers were far more dexterous than they had been even weeks before and he quickly caught hold of the hilt, yanking it from his pale flesh. Zoe winced, face scrunching, eyes closing as her breath caught.
When she reopened them the blade was shockingly clean, dry, like it had only just come from the counter, rather than from within Kyle's body. "What?" she began, brows knitting. Her fingers ran along the slit in his shirt, probing. There was a hole in his chest: dark red, puckered, but dry and bloodless.
Zoe licked her lips, chin lifting with her gaze, studying the boy before her. He stared down into her eyes as the knife dropped to the floor with a clumsy thump.
He was dead. Not alive. It struck her like lightening. He was never alive. That was not what their spell had done; it had restored him, animated him, but had not breathed life into his corpse. It gave movement, substance, to a dead body. It returned thoughts and feelings, an approximation of life, but not the real thing.
Her breathe caught. But if Kyle was dead, couldn't be wounded, re-killed, could he, could she, could they, be together? In a way she had never imagined possible after Charlie's death. But to put such a theory to the test, it was madness, it was too risky. Wasn't it?
Kyle's head cocked to the side, his eyes studying her, as his lip remained tucked between his teeth. He was still nervous, wary of her reaction, and without another moment to ponder, question herself, Zoe went up on her toes, lips crashing frantically into his own.
"Zoe," he whispered feverishly as his arms encircled her, lifting her, clutching her to his body with a kind of magnificent greed.
"Kyle," she sighed against his mouth, "I want…" She couldn't voice the words so instead lowered her small hand from his neck, let it slide down over his chest, his belt buckle, to linger, warming and needy, against the rapidly growing bulge in his jeans. The response she received was a gasp, a groan, mingled together, as they moved backward, her black booted toes dragging across the floor boards as they made their way to his mattress.
His mouth was aggressive, desperate, against her own as rough hands ran up then down the bare lengths of her arms, gripping her tight enough to leave bruises but she didn't care, it only made her hot, like molten wax, melting into him. When he dropped down to the makeshift bed, taking her with him, his lips trailed along her jaw, her neck, sucking, marking her pulse point.
"Please," she gasped, hips rolling forward as she breathed against his ear. Kyle's fingertips skimmed the flesh of her thighs while he gazed up at her, eyes questioning. Her lips were red, full, kissed into plumpness. And she nodded, giving permission where all other times she had stuttered, halted, stilled his actions.
"Zoe?" He reaffirmed, staring down at her with hunger, all previous warnings forgotten in his passion.
"Yes," she rasped, needy and dying for his touch, his cock.
In response Kyle yanked on her cotton underwear so hard that it tore away from her thighs as opposed to skimming down them. "Zoe," she heard the want in his one word. Felt it between her legs, hot and slick.
It wasn't slow. There was no possible way it could have been, not after everything, the waiting, the worrying. And try as she might Zoe could not help but tense, body rigid with fear and trepidation, that moment he entered her for the first time, filling her, stretching her.
Kyle's lips were soothing as they feathered down the column of her throat, tongue darting out to lave at her collarbone. His hips drove into her with abandon though, feverish and undone. She coughed back tears she was on the verge of spilling and when his eyes caught hers she let her fingers glide through his damp hair, a moan cutting the air around them.
But he was still going. Pounding into her as they slid further and further up the mattress. No blood dripped from Kyle's nose, his eyes, his ears. Instead he grinned that sloppy silly grin at her. And it hurt so good. Every part of it. The fullness of having him inside of her. The burn of the stiff fabric against her sweaty back. The dull throb where he continued to hold her too tightly. She could feel it all, have it all. The good, the bad. And then he came inside her with something between a grunt and a roar, filling her with the sticky wetness of a dead man's seed. She could have that too. That feeling of completion.
Zoe bit her lip as he pulled out, his fingers trailing over her abdomen and reaching between them to tweek her clit as his mouth latched onto one breast. Her head tossed back and forth on the flat musty pillow, "Fuck. Yes, please. Fuck, Kyle." Words tumbled out of her incoherently as he worked her, made her cum. She was delirious with it all, the experience, the knowledge that she could have him, this one boy, the one she wanted most of all.
The knife wound needed to be stitched. It never did close on its own. His body truly would not, could not, heal itself and Zoe could do little more than upkeep, maintenance, with her current powers. But that could change, couldn't it?
Supreme, she thought, she would need to become the supreme. Then she could do more. And as soon as the idea coursed through her mind she felt a tingling in her fingertips. Power thrummed through her body. Zoe felt alive with it. Fear, worry, trepidation were things of the past.
Was that how Supremes were chosen? The witch who wanted it, needed it the most? Did greed bring power? Or had the power been there all along only waiting for her to call upon it.
Fiona, perhaps it was actually she, Zoe, who was the most like her. The queen had been mistaken in her earlier assumptions. She was the girl who was hungry for it. She would be the usurper to the throne. It was laughable. The older woman has barely bothered to look at her twice. Her frozen heart unable to recognize the power brought in love. The unstoppable need to protect that which mattered most. Kyle would make her Supreme. And her powers as the supreme would keep him with her always. And her body vibrated with the rightness of it all.