American Horror Story Character Imagines/Preferences

James Patrick March: Secret

(Look up James March: Sweet serial killer on youtube, you won't regret lol)

You tossed and turned from your nightmare. Your husband coming towards you, armed with pure unbridled rage and a kitchen knife. You screamed until you shook yourself awake. You opened your eyes, tears from your unconscious running down your cheeks, and sat up panting. You hadn't had a dream about him in so long. Especially not one so horrible. Where was your husband? No doubt this dream was brought on by your reading in the paper of his disappearance. When you tried to approach James about it, he only changed the subject. You weren't concerned for his well being, you were concerned he was missing because he was coming after you. Truthfully, deep down, you wished him dead.

Another scream broke through your thoughts, though this one did not belong to you. With a furrowed brow, you stood and listened for another. Another came. It was unmistakably coming from a man. And it was close. You followed the scream, obviously concerned, until you came face to face with the man emitting the cries. It was some stranger, restrained in some awful torture machine. Blood mixed with what could only be gasoline by the smell of it. You screamed and rushed to help him.

"Don't take another step." You hear a calm but stern voice from behind you. Whipping around, you scream in horror again at the creature your eyes meet with. The shirtless man is drenched in sweat and blood, and some terrifying contraption set atop his head shields his face. "(Y/n)?" He says in shock. The fact that this monster knows your name does little to quell your fright. Instinctively, you rush to the metal table and grab a pair of gardening sheers; surely though, that wouldn't be their intended purpose this night. "Stay back! Please!" You hated that you were begging, but if it saved your life in the end, you were prepared to get down on your knees before him.

The man said nothing, did nothing; like he wasn't sure what move to make. "(Y/n) I-" He stopped himself. Your heart sank to a depth further than you even knew about. You recognized that voice. That was the voice of your savior, your caretaker, your love. "James?" Your voice trembled. "This isn't how I wanted you to find out." It came out as nothing more than a whisper.

You dropped the sheers with a thud and began to cry softly against your will. You felt weak again; as weak and hopeless as your husband made you feel. Your legs walked backwards on their own and you were only thankful that they hadn't grown so weak as to let you fall. With every step you took to back away from him, James took a step in pursuit, his bloody arms opening in a welcoming manner to you. "(Y/n), please." You couldn't speak, you could only tremble and whimper.

James shook too. "I love you." He said earnestly. You were now backed up against a brick wall and his arms enclosed the space around you so you could not escape. You wanted to vomit, you were so scared. "Please don't." You asked. "Don't what?" "Love me." You answers weakly, tears stinging your eyes and hot on your cheeks. You heard a sniffle, and it wasn't your own. James dropped his arms down to his sides, his fists clenching and unclenching weakly.

"Take this off." You said after a moment of standing in near silence. The victim had passed out, at least you told yourself he was only sleeping, and the only sound in the room was panting and sniffling. James did not move. It was so hard to talk to a man without a face, especially your man. Still terrified but slowly becoming able to move, you reach up to his leather mask. His hand comes up to grab yours and you flinch, shutting your eyes tight. Memories of your nightmarish life with your husband come flooding back. But your hand is met by gentle touch and his thumb stroking the back of yours. By the time you open your eyes, James has removed the mask and you can finally see his face.

He's crying. Not blubbering. He's too dignified for that. Silently, tears slide down his red cheeks and he tries to shake them away, a small chuckle to clear his throat. "I'm so sorry." He whispers it as though he's never apologized for anything in his life. At the utterance of the words, heavier tears poor out and he turns away from you, throwing his mask and his gloves aggressively to the side and slapping his hands to his face. "What you must think of me." He yells, but it does not frighten you. You've never seen a man more weak, more genuine, than in this instance. Your tears have run out and you don't know what to do anymore.