#Morbid Illusion

[pathologicalreid]

for the fear of falling apart | part four

you missed the paperwork that said joining the BAU meant having an unstable personal life, and Cat Adams is dedicated to making sure you know nothing is ever private

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | epilogue

series masterlist

who? spencer reid x jareau!reader category: angst content warnings: fear of drowning, couples counseling, spencer's mommy issues, takes place during 15x6 "date night", pregnancy and miscarriage, stillbirth, sexual assault, way too many ellipses, suicide, attempted murder, reader's daddy issues, details from the dirty dozen plotline, mishandled apologies, a lot of yapping, near drowning, disassociation, self harm word count: 9.75k a/n: i hate cat adams so much but god she is so funny in this episode. also cat and spencer shippers are not welcome. why does he look so good in this gif. this is the extent of my coherent thoughts.

“I just made the bed,” you complained halfheartedly, still allowing yourself to be tugged over to the bed despite your protests.

Climbing up on the bed, you tucked yourself into Spencer’s side, so cold after getting out of bed that you wished you could absorb his body heat. “C’mere,” he muttered, placing his hands on either side of your waist and pulling you over him, the two of you meeting face to face. “Hi pretty,” he greeted, craning his head up to place a gentle kiss on your lips.

You smiled slightly against his lips, ducking your head so that your mouths never separated. Mornings away from the bureau were few and far between, so you weren’t interested in wasting a single moment. “Good morning,” you whispered before bringing your lips back to his.

When the phone started to ring, Spencer’s hands fell from your waist in disappointment. He leaned his head back while you rolled off the bed and handed him his phone which he begrudgingly answered, “Hey, what’s up?”

With the phone on speaker, you heard Emily’s voice ring through the phone, “We have a case, it’s urgent,” concern oozed through her tone as you pulled your blazer on over your blouse.

“Alright, we’ll be right in,” he responded for the both of you. Most of the time, they only needed to call one of you.

Emily cleared her throat, “Spencer, there’s something you need to know.”

The thirty-minute drive from the district to Quantico was silent. You decided to drive, not wanting to worry about the metro when there was so much on the line. Barely having put the car in park, Spencer was already flying out of the car and to the elevator.

Several questions rested like a weight on the tip of your tongue and part of you hoped that this was all part of a morbid prank, but you knew when it came to Cat, it was never a joke. Purposefully being the first two people there, you followed Spencer to where Prentiss and Rossi were waiting in the roundtable room, “Catch us up,” he said, walking through the doorway and beginning to study the information on the screen.

“Early this morning Garcia got an email from an anonymous server,” Emily began, looking between the both of you with concern in her eyes.

Dave nodded next to her, “She’s not obscuring her face, telling us she’s got nothing to hide.”

Next to you, Spencer nodded, slipping both of his hands into his pockets, “Any ideas on the victims or UnSub?”

Chewing nervously on the inside of your lip, you looked at the screen carefully. The photo displayed two girls, one of them a teenager, maybe eighteen, and the other couldn’t be much older than ten. You didn’t speak, waiting for the words that you have heard over the phone to be spoken in person.

“No, only the UnSub’s demand that we release Catherine Adams within twenty-four hours. I’m having her transferred here for questioning,” she informed Spencer, “But we have no illusions. This is just a game to her, we know that. The question is, do we want to play it or not?”

In your periphery, you watched the remaining members of the team funnel into the bullpen, each of them placing their belongings on their respective desks before setting up for the day. Glancing back at Spencer, you shrugged almost indeterminably, “Do we have a choice?”

Spencer met your stare before looking back at Emily and Rossi, “Could you guys give us a minute?”

The both of them nodded, switching off the screen before heading out, presumably to begin briefing the remainder of the unit. You listened to the click of the door, waiting for Spencer to say anything.

“I don’t want you in there,” he told you.

You weren’t shocked by his request. When he was released from prison he had wanted to keep you near, going so far as to have you fly with him and your sister to Mount Pleasant because after three months he couldn’t bear to be separated. However, he didn’t want you in the observation room, so you stayed on the sidelines while he spoke with Cat, only hearing bits and pieces after the fact.

Once you nodded, Spencer took a deep breath, “I don’t want her to be able to use you against me. If she even gets the slightest idea that you’re behind the glass… I don’t know what she’ll do.”

Most members of the BAU had their One. The one UnSub that would likely haunt them for the rest of their lives, for Emily it was Ian Doyle, for Rossi it was Tommy Yates, and for Spencer it was Cat. “I’ll stay in the bullpen,” you reassured him, “I won’t leave the building, but I don’t need to listen in.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, pressing a timid kiss to your hairline before looking over to where Emily was waving him over.

Grimly, you followed Spencer out of the roundtable room, armed guards pouring through the elevator, signifying that the eagle had landed. You stopped at the glass doors, nestling yourself behind a wall – you didn’t need to see her, and she didn’t deserve to see you.

“She’s a contract killer?” Matt questioned as Spencer, Emily, and Rossi headed to the interrogation room. The only member of the team who hadn’t been around while Spencer was in Millburn, and the only member of the team with no experience with Cat Adams. In your gut, you felt a tug of envy.

Penelope nodded nervously, “She’s much, much more than that.” Her voice wavered slightly. Garcia had her own issues with Cat Adams, months of living in the BAU had left her worse for wear, but it was the best option while being hunted by a group of hit men.

You watched the members of the team as their eyes followed Cat around the hallway. “She’s a black widow,” JJ clarified for Simmons, “She preys on men she can seduce. She thrives on psychological seduction.” Her words made your stomach flip as you remembered everything she had put Spencer through in Mexico and subsequently prison – it was psychological warfare, and he was being sent into the lion’s den.

Luke nodded along to the narrative, “She has a body count that she’s never confirmed, but it’s believed to be in the hundreds.” Last time you had given tallying them up a chance you had almost reached two hundred, but she was only being criminally charged with seventy-three counts.

“She’s one of the most dangerous criminals we’ve ever arrested,” Tara admitted, “and she is obsessed with Reid.”

The group took a collective breath when Cat was fully in the interrogation room, “He’s the only man to ever outsmart her,” you continued. As much as he hated to admit it, everything she had ever said to Spencer had hit its mark, and you felt like your insides were being shredded at the knowledge that he was in there with her.

You flipped through Cat’s prison records once you were sat at your desk, looking up at any slight moment at the hope that someone might tell you what was going on. The prison records were relatively tame outside of what you already knew about her and Wilkins and her involvement with Lindsay Vaughn, but something you hadn’t thought about was her baby.

Spencer had broken the hard truth to Cat that day in Mount Pleasant, she couldn’t be a good mother. Her psychopathy would make it so that she would grow bored with a baby the same way a child would bore of a doll. You wondered how she viewed her miscarriage. Some psychopaths had the capacity to mourn, but you weren’t sure Cat fell within that demographic.

Her medical record painted a horrifying picture. She had been so far along that the baby had been delivered stillborn. Your stomach flipped at the charts, closing them before moving to the kitchenette to refill your coffee.

On your way, you saw Spencer through the glass doors, changing course so you could catch him before he went back. You veered around the corner, not wanting to call out his name before he turned into an interview room. Lagging behind, you kept yourself hidden, feeling like you were intruding and starting to walk backward, away from him.

Until you heard a crash and a shout, at which point you pivoted and returned to the interview room. A few agents started rubbernecking at the door, trying to see what was going on, “Keep walking,” you ordered them, pointing away from the room.

Inside the room, Spencer had haphazardly discarded his tie on the floor before proceeding to swipe everything off of the bookshelf. He didn’t acknowledge you as you stepped into the room, he just paced, placing his hand on his chest as he tried to self-regulate.

You tried to go around him, wanting to pick up the fallen books before anyone noticed what had happened, but before you could, Spencer grabbed your hand and pulled you into him. Getting over the initial startle, you reached out your arms and wrapped them around him, “I’m right here.”

“I’m struggling,” he admitted to you, holding you tightly against him. His time in prison felt like lifetimes ago at this point, but the way he hugged you reminded you of the day he got out – the last time you had to deal with Cat Adams.

His openness about his feelings helped to ease your own anxiety, and you were able to look up at him and offer a comforting smile, “That’s alright. This isn’t easy.” You kept your eyes on him, readjusting his rumpled collar and messy hair, “Why don’t you go get some water? I’ll take care of this,” you offered, holding your hand up when he tried to protest.

Spencer left without a fight, and you tried to reassemble the books and trinkets in the way they had previously been before wiping your palms on your jeans and walking back into the bullpen.

The team was gathering in the roundtable room, exchanging information and proposing ideas, “The victimology’s off,” Spencer said, gesturing to the screen where the two girls were being displayed.

“How so?” Tara asked, raising an eyebrow and glancing between your fiancé and the screen.

He crossed his arms in front of his chest, “Two young girls. She’s never done anything like this before.”

Agreeing, Tara looked around the table, “She usually targets men that remind her of her father. Children, even adult children are off limits.” She turned to Penelope, “Do we have an ID yet?”

Waving a fuzzy pen in the air, Penelope sighed, “You would think a parent or someone would notice, but there’s nothing coming up in any of my searches.”

“What do we know about the partner who’s been helping her?” Rossi asked no one in particular, looking to anyone who might have an answer.

Matt leaned his elbows over the table, “It’s gotta be someone from her prison. She wasn’t in contact with anyone else. We can start with known associates who were recently released,” he looked to Garcia, who nodded astutely before typing furiously on her laptop.

You spoke up from the doorway, slipping Spencer’s discarded tie into your back pocket, “I have a list going of associates at Mount Pleasant, we can do some comparing and contrasting,” you offered.

“Oh, I do love a good Venn diagram,” Penelope concurred, smiling before scooping up her laptop and making her way back to the lair.

Taking her seat, you uncomfortably sat next to JJ, leaning your knees toward Rossi so that you didn’t accidentally touch her legs. “Okay, can I tell you what’s been bugging me?” Your sister asked rhetorically, “Every time we’ve gone up against Cat, there’s the presenting agenda and the hidden one. If she sticks to pattern, this isn’t just about going on a date with Spencer.”

You considered the idea of her not having a secondary agenda but she had already veered so far off from her usual M.O. that everything else needed to follow the arbitrary rules in her mind.

“Right now, she’s a fixed variable,” Emily counseled, “We need to focus on identifying the UnSub and her victims.”

At that, everyone parted ways except for you and Spencer, you stayed flipping through folders of research you had on Cat Adams, ranging from her time as Miss .45 to her years in Mount Pleasant Women’s Correctional Facility. Spencer stood, hands on the back of your chair as he looked at the pictures being projected on the screen.

Every time Cat Adams came up, each topic you even slightly associated with her resurfaced – Diana’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis, Mexico, Millburn, and now the two of you were just barely recovering from the fallout of your sister’s truth. You were overwhelmed, and if you were overwhelmed, Spencer had to be on the verge of some kind of breakdown.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered despite the empty room, “Tell me what to do.”

You took a deep breath before turning your head and looking up at him, “I can’t tell you what to do. This is your decision.”

He sighed, lowering himself down in the chair next to you and resting his chin in his hand, “Then don’t tell me what to do, but I would like your input. Your thoughts, feelings,” he amended.

Smiling despite yourself, you looked over at him, “Someone’s paying attention in couple’s therapy,” you said lightly, setting your hand gently on his knee.

“I just need to know if we’re on the same page or if I’m going to mess everything up,” he said, bringing his free hand to where yours rested and threading your fingers together.

You leaned back in the office chair, shrugging slightly before you answered, “I think you should go.”

Spencer frowned, “What?”

“I think you should go on the date with Cat,” you iterated.

Clearly, that wasn’t what he had expected from you, “I don’t- You want me to go on a date with someone else?”

You flipped your file shut before looking back at him, “If I had the liberty to look at this situation as just your fiancé I would, but I’m not just your fiancé. I’m an FBI agent and I’m looking at these girls,” you gestured to the screen, “and I know that our best chance of finding them might just be sending you on a date with Cat.” You took a deep breath, “She always trips up and she always does it with you. It’s your call, at the end of the day, you don’t need to go if it’s not something you want to have to experience, but you asked for my thoughts, so there they are.”

Spencer looked conflicted as he considered his options, “I’ve- We’ve come so far recently. I’d hate to ruin all of that.”

Shaking your head, you smiled at his concern, “Solving the case has to come first this time, love.”

He nodded in agreement, standing up and keeping your hands intertwined, “Come with me,” he encouraged, nearly dragging you over to the interrogation room where Cat was. He opened the door to the observation room and brought you in with him.

You averted your eyes so that you didn’t have to look at her – possibly the only woman you would throttle given the chance – and just waited for Emily, who was getting more details.

Waiting for the door to close behind her, Spencer listened for the click before speaking up, “Well, what are her demands?”

Emily looked exasperated, sharing a look with you before responding, “She wants to go ice skating so she can skate circles around you. She’s wasting our time.”

And her own, you thought, Cat didn’t have much time to make an arrangement with Spencer, eventually, she’d just be sent back to prison. Ice skating would never get approved anyway. No matter how you try to spin it, no one would give her a blade.

The door opened, taking attention away from Cat and onto Penelope, who looked confused and mildly disturbed, “Okay,” she started, “Something weird happened, but it could be a lead. I just got a bazillion voicemail messages, all from the same address on Fourth Street.”

While Tara and Luke checked out the potential lead on Fourth, you stayed sat at your desk, listening carefully to the bustling office around you. Up in Emily’s office, you heard your sister and Simmons updating your unit chief, “We found the UnSub, her name is Juliette Weaver – it took the prison all of five minutes to identify her.”

You filtered through your file in front of you, looking for the information you had on Weaver while Matt continued speaking, “She was Cat’s old cellmate. Released from prison six months ago, off the grid a week ago.”

“What was she in for?” Rossi asked and you wondered if they knew how well voices carried into the bullpen.

Matt cleared his throat before responding, “Low-level possession, she took the rap for her boyfriend, but according to the warden, she’d follow Cat around like a puppy dog.”

Your unit chief hummed thoughtfully, “Easily manipulated. So, Cat groomed her, got her to take orders.” Much like she had done with Lindsey Vaughn, convincing her to destroy Spencer’s life – you wondered if Juliette considered Cat her lover too.

“It goes deeper than that,” JJ interjected, “Cat and Juliette have something in common.”

“Juliette’s dad killed her mom in a domestic dispute. Then he fled and was never caught,” Matt resumed, surprising you.

As you imagined the surprise on Emily’s face, she responded, “That’s exactly what happened with Cat’s parents.”

You watched them in the office as Matt set something down on Emily’s desk, “Yeah, so we did a little digging into Susan. We thought that she might’ve been Juliette’s mom, but she’s not.”

“She’s Cat’s,” Rossi realized.

Matt hummed in confirmation, “Susan Adams, unidentified cold case from 1987. She was found floating in the water on the Potomac. Thanks to that picture, the case isn’t cold anymore.”

Turning your attention back to the information you had on Cat’s former cellmates, you looked over Juliette’s personal information. There wasn’t much on her, but there were some details about her family – including two younger sisters. You would likely need Garcia to confirm it for you, but you had a good feeling that the two girls being held captive were Juliette’s sisters. If that was Juliette’s stake in this, you were no closer to figuring out what Cat’s endgame was.

Looking up at your computer, you thought about the first time Spencer and Cat had gone head-to-head. It had been almost four years to the date. You frowned at your monitor, “It’s an anniversary,” you whispered to no one in particular.

“What was that?” Luke asked from his desk, adjusting his Kevlar vest as he prepared to be the chaperone for the date.

Double-checking the dates, you turned to face him as you clarified, “Four years, almost to the date of the day Spencer arrested Cat.”

Luke nodded in understanding, “That’s why she chose now to act. It wasn’t just that she was running out of time, this was the perfect time for her to get into Reid’s mind.”

Scoffing, you gathered up your papers and walked up to Emily’s office, if Cat wanted to meddle, fine, but you could play her game too.

Four years, you thought to yourself. Spencer had been on family leave for months, and taking down Cat was his first case back. You wish you had known back then how much that case would affect the next four years of his life.

The team gathered when it was time, the remaining eight standing outside of the glass doors to the unit and watching and Spencer and Cat strolled through the hallway. She had been cleaned up, some poor agent sent out to find a date-appropriate outfit for her, and she was holding onto Spencer like he was a prize she had won at a fair.

Spencer’s face was blank. No, worse than that, he was completely absent. Separating himself from what was going on with Cat. It horrified you, every time you saw Spencer retreat into himself it made you sick to your stomach. You were grateful Luke was going with them, he was someone Spencer trusted to make the right calls.

For the first time that day, you and Cat locked eyes, glaring at each other in a battle of wills, “Don’t wait up,” she called out to you, winking before the heavy elevator doors slid shut.

Slowly, your group dispersed, going back to trying to figure out Cat and Juliette’s endgame. You looked at your files, but you couldn’t focus, you could barely breathe. Spencer would be safe. He was smart enough to evade anything Cat threw at him, but she seemed to chip at him every time they saw each other.

You swung in your office chair, trying to form an even semi-helpful thought as your sister came up to your desk, “Hey.”

Peeling your eyes away from the folders, you looked up at her, “Hi,” you responded, slightly confused.

JJ sat on the edge of your desk, crossing her ankles so her legs didn’t dangle, and she looked at you, blonde hair curtained around her face.

There wasn’t much for you to do until the date started and Spencer could fish for answers with Cat, but even so, you weren’t interested in holding a staring contest with your sister. “Did you need anything?” You felt like it was a gentle enough question, there was no reason for you to bring your hostile family relationship to work with you. Everyone knew there was something happening between the two of you, but no one knew precisely what it was.

Her eyebrows creased briefly, “I thought we could talk, just for a minute.”

You unceremoniously dropped your pen on your desk, leaning back and looking at your sister incredulously, “Kind of shit timing, don’t you think?”

“I invited you for dinner last night and you didn’t show up. Every time I come up to you at work you start a conversation with someone else,” she tried to explain herself.

It was exactly as she thought – you were avoiding her. You had no interest in repairing your familial tie, your thread of gold had frayed beyond repair. “I was busy last night, I told you I wouldn’t be able to make it. You’re the one who didn’t believe me.”

She sighed defeatedly, “Thursdays used to be your best night. You’d always come for dinner on Thursday nights like clockwork, are you telling me that changed overnight?”

You bit your tongue, but it wasn’t that you were trying to stop yourself from sniping at her, you were trying to stop yourself from telling her where you were last night. Thursday evening was your weekly couples counseling appointment and your sister didn’t need to be privy to the inner workings of your relationship. Besides that, none of this had been overnight – you hadn’t been over for dinner in months now.

For every single milestone that you reached with Spencer, JJ was the first person you told, but when you got engaged, she found out the news secondhand through Penelope. You knew you had hurt her. Maybe it wasn’t the same as her love confession, but you hurt her, and you couldn’t bring yourself to apologize. You weren’t entirely sure if you should apologize.

“I’m telling you that I didn’t snub you on dinner, JJ. I was busy, I couldn’t come,” you told her, keeping your tone level as you looked up at her.

Her expression soured, “How long are you going to be mad at me?”

Forever, if you could help it, but you couldn’t tell her that. Despite your anger, despite the sadness that thinking too hard about all of this brought you, you knew that you weren’t capable of holding your sister at arm’s length for the rest of your life. “JJ, I’m not-“ you cut yourself off. “When I found out that you were in love with Spencer, I promised myself that I wouldn’t hold it against you,” you lowered your voice, conscious of the bustling bullpen around you. “I’ve kept that promise. I can’t blame you for loving him when I know everything he has ever done that makes him loveable. I love him too. So, in whatever convoluted way you want to look at it, I understand where you’re coming from.”

She nodded in what seemed like agreement, “Ducky, I’ve known him for fifteen years, I couldn’t-“

“You see,” you interrupted her, “That’s where my understanding runs out. Just because you’ve known him longer doesn’t give you the right to come into our relationship and fuck everything up. Yes, Jennifer, you’ve known him for fifteen years, but you rejected him. You rejected him and ended up with someone else. Thirteen years after meeting Will, you told Spencer you were in love with him. Do you know how wrong that is?”

JJ’s shoulders slumped forward, “Yes, but-“

You held up your hand, stopping her from speaking, “No, JJ. There’s no ‘but’. What you did was wrong. You can try to justify it to me in whatever way you want, but what you did will always be wrong. It will always affect our relationship. Your love for Spencer is the ghost haunting our house and there are no Ouija boards in the world that can translate for me,” You cringed at your figure of speech, but you went along with it anyway.

“You’re engaged, so there’s obviously a way through this for the two of you,” she tried to argue, but you could tell her heart wasn’t in it.

Pausing, you picked at the dry skin around your nails, “Spencer and I had a really long and exhaustive talk a few weeks ago.”

She raised her eyebrows, “I know, I read the police blotter.”

You rolled your eyes, that hadn’t been a fun talk with Emily, but at least she prevented your dispute from reaching HR. “Yeah, we had a loud talk. We figured things out. We’re still figuring things out, but we decided that we’d rather do that together than apart.”

“I helped him pick the ring,” she confessed. “About a year ago and I thought… I thought he’d tell me before asking.”

Instinctively, your eyes flicked down to your left hand, “For what it’s worth, it was all very spur of the moment.”

JJ shook her head, “Why are you trying to comfort me right now?”

“God, JJ. I might be pissed at you, but you’re still my sister,” you snapped at her. “While I might want to, I can’t just cut you out of my life and I can’t stop myself from caring about you. If you want to work on our relationship, owning up to your mistakes is a good start. Spencer came clean to me and now we’re engaged, but that doesn’t negate the fact that this was broken in the first place. You don’t get to brush this under the rug.”

“You wouldn’t let me brush it under the rug anyway,” she retorted.

Your head snapped up to her, “Is that what you want? To forget any of this ever happened?”

She was quiet for a while before responding, “Yes.”

You pressed your lips together and studied her briefly, “Well, I can’t give you that.”

JJ opened her mouth like she wanted to say something else, but Emily beat her to it, calling out to you from the doorway of her office, “Do you have a second?”

The ceiling of your apartment was only interesting for a limited amount of time. You’d spent years in the apartment, tracing the patterns with your eyes just felt redundant now.

Emily had benched you. She disguised it as giving you the rest of the night off, but you were effectively taken off the case. She couldn’t claim it was a conflict of interest, everyone on the team had a conflict of interest with Cat Adams, but that’s what she thought it was.

You sat down on the couch, drumming your fingers on your denim-clad thigh while you waited for a phone call – you’d even take a text message.

Wallowing in your own boredom, you listened to the sounds of the city. Where the two of you lived, it was hectic during the day and became more manageable at night, but it was still the city. Cars drove by, sirens wailed, people chatted along the sidewalk, and people spoke in the hallway.

No, actually, people talking in your hallway was abnormal. Sitting up, you looked at the front door, considering going to snoop in on your neighbor’s conversation.

You didn’t even have the time to decide before the door opened, revealing Spencer and Cat in the middle of what seemed like a rather intense kiss.

He pulled away, looking into the apartment and seeming surprised to see you.

Standing up, your arms dangled limply at your sides, “Oh, Spence.”

Holding up a finger, he silently begged you to wait. You couldn’t hear anything that came out of his mouth, everything was muffled as you fought back the tears that were burning your eyes.

You didn’t talk again until Cat spoke to you. “What?”

She laughed slightly and you could hear your heart pounding, “Did it make you mad when I kissed your fiancé?”

You hated her. Your mother would tell you that hate is a strong word, and you still didn’t care, you hated her. “No,” you lied through your teeth.

Innocently, her eyebrows raised, “Why not?”

Four years. Four years of her haunting Spencer. You thought back to that first meeting at the restaurant and responded, “No offense, but you’re not really worth getting mad at.”

Her eyes lit up and even though you knew better, you were proud of yourself for striking a nerve. With a psychopath, that was a dangerous game. Before long, she meandered around the furniture in your home and sat in the reading chair, she looked at you, “Oh, sweetheart, we have so much to talk about. I’m so glad Spencie finally decided to introduce us.”

Anxiously, your eyes flicked over to Spencer’s. Worse than your own anxiety, he looked angry, an uncommon expression for him to wear. “It’s nice to have a real conversation with you,” you gratified her.

“Normally, Spencie and I, we spend our time together playing games, but tonight I want you both here to make a point,” she watched Spencer as the two of you waited for the ball to drop. “You could do so much better, because girl,” she turned to look at you, “You need to know the truth about him.”

Pinching your brows together, you looked at Cat, “What are you talking about?”

She smiled to herself, flipping her brown hair over her shoulder, “He told me that no matter what, he can’t get me out of his mind.”

“Everything I said to her tonight was a lie,” Spencer interjected, doing damage control on your relationship while Cat tried to take it apart.

Cat scoffed, “Did our kiss look like a lie?”

There was a time when Spencer was under the impression that he had been sexually assaulted by Cat in Mexico, and during that time, you were afraid of him hurting himself. You were in the lion’s den with him now and you had to rely on your gut. He wouldn’t kiss her unless it was his last resort. He wouldn’t do that to himself. He wouldn’t do that to you. Still, you forced yourself to look at him and answer her question, “No.”

“Thank you, now we’re getting to the heart of the matter,” she resumed smugly, obviously pleased with your response and she stood up, putting her hands on everything around the apartment. “You see, everyone thinks that Dr. Spencer Reid is- is just this nice, bookish, uh, genius who uh, always saves the day and has all the answers and has… zero mommy issues, right?” She pointedly tipped over a photo of Diana before she continued flouncing around the apartment, “But um, I know the real him.”

Spencer looked at her incredulously and you wished you could hear what he was thinking at that moment, “Yeah? Who’s the real me, Cat?”

She cocked her head at you, the faux pity in her eyes made you nauseous, “The real Spencer Reid throws women against walls and hisses that he’s going to kill them.”

He faltered and you knew she had hit her mark, “That was a very different situation.”

“Was it?” She challenged, looking at him for a rebuttal, but the vacant look was coming back to his eyes.

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you met his eyes, “What is she talking about?”

You had been in Mount Pleasant that day. For all of the things she knew about, she didn’t know that you had been there, and you could use that against her, but you’d likely hurt Spencer in the process.

“You tell her,” Cat insisted, “She’s not gonna believe it coming from me.” With a flourish, she sat back down in the chair, crossing her legs as she watched her entertainment for the night.

Spencer pursed his lips, leaning forward as his eyes flicked between the two of you, “Just like tonight, she got under my skin and-“

“You threw her against a wall,” you finished, displaying your comprehension of the story to Cat and reminding Spencer that you already knew.

Cat stood back up, dragging a hand along your shoulders, sending goosebumps sprawling across your skin. “Don’t skimp on the details, Spencie,” she goaded him. “She deserves to know everything.”

The terrible feeling you’d had all day worsened as you realized where she was going with this. It was the natural continuation of the story for her even if it wasn’t the truth.

“She was pregnant at the time, and I knew that when I hurt her,” Spencer admitted, the shame he felt emanating from him in waves.

You’re not like that, baby. You’re not a violent person, you remembered telling him. You wanted to tell him that now, but she’d never let you.

Cat looked at you, a devilish glint in her eye as she rounded out her fabrication, “And the next day I miscarried. The end.”

Your breathing hitched as you saw Spencer retreat completely into himself, “What? That’s not true.”

Her head snapped over to him, “It most certainly is true, check my medical records.”

“That doesn’t- I would-“ He stuttered, but it was too late.

“Stop,” she interjected, nodding her head in your direction, “Look.”

You were choking on the truth. You wanted to scream at her and simultaneously tell Spencer that she was lying to him. The words weren’t coming out, the only thing you had were tears. They were streaming down your face as you looked at nobody and nothing, sitting on your hands.

No one said anything for a while before Spencer sat down, keeping his distance from you, “I’m sorry.”

“Notice how your fiancé is apologizing to you and not me,” Cat instructed you, you peered up at her through wet eyelashes. “Men are all the same, aren’t they Ducky?”

Spencer jumped to your defense as you blanched at the nickname, “Don’t call her that,” he snapped.

Cat inclined her head toward him, “What, are you going to throw me up against the wall and choke me or do you only do that to pregnant women?”

Of all of the things for Cat to know about you, your childhood nickname wasn’t what you expected. You looked at her and met her eyes through your bleary ones, “Why are you doing this?”

You regretted the question as soon as you asked it, but you couldn’t take it back now, “Because I want you to see it,” she explained. “I want you to see that he is no better than all the men you chase. All the men who have hurt you before.”

“Stop,” you pleaded, staring at the floor in front of you.

Cat crouched next to you, forcing you to look her in the eyes, “I can see it in your face. Why did you flinch when I used your nickname?”

Your nostrils flared, “It’s none of your business,” you insisted.

She laughed at your attempted assertion, “Oh, but it is. In fact, it’s my specialty. Is he nearby? I could send Juliette over to say hi,” she offered.

“Say yes,” Spencer interjected, “Give her what she wants.”

Glaring at him, Cat waved him off, “He wants you to get me to make a phone call so they can trace it. You’re so good, the BAU.”

You shook your head helplessly, “I never wanted to be involved in this sick, twisted game between the two of you.” Even still, you had never been given the choice. Emily sent you home under the guise of waiting out the date only for it to be a trap.

Cat mock-pouted, “Tell me your story, Ducky, and I promise I will give Juliette a call and those two girls will be safe and sound.”

And that was the end of it. You couldn’t let your cowardice cost those girls their lives – or whatever Cat had planned for them.

“Come on, little duck,” she prodded at you, “It’s story time.”

Spencer shook his head, “Y/N, it’s a trap.”

Scoffing, Cat sat next to you, “It is so tricky, isn’t it? I mean, who are you gonna trust? The lying, cheating, violent psychopath… or me?”

Desperately, you looked up at Spencer and his face fell as he realized what you were doing. “My sister gave it to me,” you told her.

Impishly, she smiled, “Jennifer?”

“No,” you answered, “Roslyn, and don’t interrupt.” You frowned, piling your hands in your lap as you searched for the story. “I don’t remember it, but when I was learning how to walk I… waddled. So, when I would walk around Roz would follow me and make duck sounds, and I would mimic her. She started calling me Ducky after that and it just stuck.”

She smiled at you knowingly, “That is so sweet. How could you hate such a heartfelt nickname from your dearly departed sister?”

You shook your head, “I don’t hate it,” you insisted.

Cat cocked her head at you, “Tell me,” she goaded. “Tell me or I ruin her life.”

Quickly, you looked up at Spencer and made sure he caught the slip up too. The two of you shared a suspicious look before you continued, “My parents put me in school early, I started kindergarten when I was four and I learned early that kids were cruel. They would follow me around and quack,” you laughed despite yourself, what had seemed heinous as a child would barely make you spare a glance as an adult. “One day, we were doing a class craft, and they put glue and feathers on my seat so they stuck to my skirt when I stood up,” you told her, recalling the way your poor mother had to leave work to help you pick feathers from your skirt.

Next to you, Cat lifted a hand to her mouth, fake yawning as she waited for you to get to the man of it all.

“When she got home, I yelled at Roslyn,” You’d spiraled about this so many times in adulthood that you were surprised it had any effect on you anymore. “I told her I hated her. I told her she was a bad sister, and I wanted her to go away,” you admitted, fighting off tears again. “She skipped dinner that night and the next morning she… JJ found her. In the bathroom. She had slit her wrists with our father’s razor blade.”

Spencer’s brown eyes bore into you, reflecting the same sadness that you were sure was on your own face, “You were only four, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Well, you certainly didn’t help,” Cat snarked.

“Cat,” Spencer snapped.

Frustrated, you wiped under your eyes, “My dad blamed me. He told me he would give me up if it meant she would come back, and he’s maintained that sentiment ever since.” You knew now that there were other things Roslyn had been struggling with at the time, but part of you would always have the nagging feeling that you had a role in your sister’s suicide.

“So, you understand me,” she said matter-of-factly.

Confused, you lifted your head to look at her, “What?”

She scooted closer to you, “You understand why I’ve killed all of them. Those men,” she clarified.”

You looked at her, “No, Cat, I don’t understand you. I hate my dad, but I don’t want to kill him. I don’t prey on the deaths of the people that I hate, and that’s the difference between me and you. I want my dad to have to live with the fact that he’s a horrible person. I want him to live with what he did to me, to my family.”

Cat narrowed her eyes at you, “And he didn’t even visit you after you got shot.”

Out of guilt, you had assumed. His guilty conscience was the only thing that kept him away. After all, almost thirty years of telling you that it should’ve been you, the universe almost came through for him. “Give me the location,” you said, holding her to her end of the bargain.

Groaning, she held out her hand for your phone so she could put the location into your map. Once you had what you needed, you started making your way out, hearing her call after you, “Keep your head above water, Ducky!”

You kept moving, your feet moving beneath you even though your heart wanted to drop to the floor, you charged out the door, ignoring Emily as she tried to comfort you. Luke followed you out of the apartment building, neither of you speaking until you handed your phone to Luke, showing him the location. “Stay here, I’ll call the team and get them to meet here,” he told you, lifting your phone to let you know he was taking it with him.

Trailing behind him anyway, you got into the passenger seat of the SUV, “I have to go, Luke. It’s… I’ll be fine.”

He wasn’t entirely convinced, but Luke generally wasn’t one to argue with you. “Okay, but I’m still calling for backup.”

It wasn’t a far drive, in fact, months ago this bridge had been a regular stopping point when you went on walks, but as soon as you stepped out of the car and heard the water running below you, you froze.

There were flashing lights all around you, and the only thing you could do was watch as Juliette held onto the older of her two sisters at the edge of the bridge. The younger girl was calling out for her sister. Vaguely, you heard Matt trying to talk Juliette into letting them go.

The little girl screamed as Juliette shoved her sister off of the bridge, putting her hands up once the crime had been committed. Luke called for search and rescue through his comm, and you watched the little girl, just as old as JJ when Roslyn passed away.

Keep your head above water.

You didn’t remember much about Roslyn’s funeral, it was mostly JJ straightening your dress and fiddling with her necklace, but that singular event had changed the entire course of your life.

The screaming continued even as you ran to the edge of the bridge, not garnering anyone’s attention until it was too late, and Luke shouted your name as you dove off of the platform.

Afterward, the first thing you would remember was the pain. You absorbed the shock of hitting the water through your arms, causing strain on both of them. The darkness of the water was just as you imagined it would be. That is, until you rose to the surface, met with dozens of flashlights shining down on you.

People called your name, but you just looked around the water, listening for splashing as you hoped to find Juliette’s sister.

There was a gasp behind you, the both of you treading as best you could, but the water was cold, and she slipped under. Impulsivity was never your strong suit, so you hadn’t really considered the way your hands would go numb until you put an arm around her waist, trying to keep her head above the water.

“Y/N!” Matt called from the riverbed, shining his flashlight over at you while you tried to support the girl. It wasn’t easy, you ducked your head under the water and pushed her up, the darkness of the water threatening to swallow you whole.

Hoisting her up, you felt your teammates pull her from the water and sighed, forgetting where you were.

You gagged on the water before reaching up your arms, letting yourself be pulled out. The shock of the air on your lungs was nearly as bad as that of the water, but as you coughed up water on the dirt, you heard the girl start coughing as well.

Her body would have been dumped right where Cat’s mother had been found, and that little girl would have lost her big sister, just like you did. It was the only thing you could think of as you were brought back to the BAU because Emily was insistent on debriefing.

“You dove into the water?” Emily asked before ordering one of the desk agents to go find something for you to change into.

Your wet clothes clung pathetically to your skin as you nodded, “Yeah, I did.”

Luke smiled next to you, “It was pretty impressive, actually.”

“It’s reckless is what it is,” Emily said, studying your damp state, “Go up to my office and turn the space heater, we need to thaw you.”

Rolling your eyes, you walked up to Emily’s office and opened the door, turning the knob on the space heater before sitting on the little couch in her office. Placing your ring on the coffee table to dry, you wrapped your arms around yourself. You waited for the desk agent to return with clothes and instead were surprised when your sister came through the doorway with a pile of clothes in hand. “Hey,” she said, lifting the clothes, “Fresh from the Academy laundry.”

She closed the blinds as you stripped down to your tank top, pulling the sweatshirt over your head before swapping out your pants as well.

“How do you feel?” She asked gently, standing across from you hesitantly.

You looked down at your new clothes, “I feel like FBI Academy propaganda,” you responded, sitting back down on the couch.

Raising her eyebrows, she looked at you intently, “I meant after… everything tonight.”

Pulling your knees up to your chest, you looked up at your sister, “It never had anything to do with Spencer,” you whispered.

She pursed her lips before sitting next to you, “Well, it’s always Cat’s goal to get under Spencer’s skin. She just chose to use you to do it this time.”

You would probably never know how Cat managed to know so much about you. Honestly, you probably didn’t want to know. This time next week, Cat Adams would be dead, and that would just have to be enough for you.

“I can’t believe you jumped into the river,” JJ said in disbelief, rubbing a hand up and down your back.

Shyly, you shrugged at her, “I saw a little girl about to lose her big sister and I couldn’t let her go through that kind of pain.”

Your sister nodded in understanding, “She was eleven?”

You nodded slowly, “And her sister was seventeen,” you whispered.

Part of you felt like you had been staring at an alternate universe all evening. “So,” JJ said, moving the conversation, “Spencer’s on his way back. He’ll probably want to talk to you, clear some things up.”

“Will you sit with me until he does?” You asked softly, afraid of her sniping back about forgiveness, but she didn’t. That wasn’t the way JJ worked, she just nodded, leaning back against the cushions and letting you rest your head on her shoulder.

She didn’t get up and leave until Spencer arrived, she went to meet him in the bullpen, and you waited for the moment someone told him where you were. There was a sensation you had never experienced before, but you felt so separate from your own actions. Despite your still wet hair, you barely remembered diving into the water.

You sensed another psychological evaluation in your future.

The rotating heater warmed you in waves as you listened to your team. They filled Spencer in on everything that had happened tonight, from Juliette’s sisters to Cat’s real plan. “She…” Spencer stammered, “She told me Y/N had a big decision to make tonight. Where is she?”

Blankly, you stared ahead at the heater, wondering what they’d tell him and what they’d save for you. “Well, she may have jumped into the Potomac,” Matt told him tentatively, his voice was gentle as he dropped the bomb.

“She dove actually,” Luke corrected, and you imagined him being proud of his redress.

Emily cleared her throat, ever the mediator, and finally answered Spencer’s question, “She’s up in my office getting warm.”

There were no more questions after that, but you recognized the footsteps as Spencer approached the office. His knock was timid, but he didn’t wait for you to respond before opening the door.

His hair was awry, you supposed yours didn’t look much better, and his breathing was uneven. A symptom, you assumed, of finding out you had jumped into the fourth largest river on the Atlantic coast. “Hi,” you waved nervously.

At the same time, he spoke, “I’m so sorry.”

There was no use in pussyfooting around, “Did you want to talk now, then?”

“Yes,” he answered instantly, “I can’t… I’m so tired of things looming over our heads.”

You sighed, folding your hands in your lap, “That cumulonimbus has been there for quite some time, hasn’t it?”

“I just cheated on you and you’re making cloud jokes?” Spencer asked in disbelief. At some point in the night, he had lost his jacket, leaving him in a rumpled dress shirt.

Turning to stone, you paused. Maybe it was the Potomac water that you had ingested, maybe it was the other events of the evening, but you had brushed off the kiss between him and Cat nearly immediately. “I guess I didn’t really think of it that way,” you admitted.

He leaned back on Emily’s desk, “All of these problems we’ve been having, and we were just beginning to make headway. I went and ruined it.”

Raising your eyebrows, you looked at Spencer quizzically, “Okay, well, now you’re catastrophizing.”

“I made a choice years ago that resulted in you facing one of your biggest fears tonight, you’re shaking, and your clothes are in a sopping pile on the ground,” he explained as if you weren’t well aware. “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously.”

“I think you just had a shitty night spent with a woman who has a knack for convincing you you’re evil, so you’re telling me how evil you are right now,” you responded, leaning back on the couch cushions. “You’re not evil and you’re barely a cheater,” you told him, “I’d love to lay out all of the evidence for you, but I’m exhausted and I’d rather we just go home.”

One look at Spencer told you that you weren’t going to be getting what you wanted tonight, the histrionics of your evening weren’t over. “I made you cry,” he said meekly. He said it like it was the worst thing he could ever do to you.

“I’m the one who told you to go! I might not be a genius, but I’m smart enough to have considered the fact that Cat would try to make a move.” Groaning, you covered your face with your arms, “Spencer, Cat made me cry. I had to sit back and watch her manipulate you into believing you caused her miscarriage.”

“You knew?” He breathed.

You nodded, dropping your arms and looking at him miserably, “Yes, I knew the truth, and it killed me to not be able to tell you.”

Waiting for him to respond was agonizing. You desperately wanted to apologize for not telling him as soon as you found out about Cat’s baby, but you didn’t think it was important information at the time.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Spencer finally spoke. “I thought… I couldn’t handle it if you thought that I’d-“

Quickly, you shook your head and waved your hands, “No, Spence. I knew the truth from the get-go.”

He was quiet, shuffling his feet on the carpet before he looked up at you. He opened his mouth to speak but second-guessed himself before sealing his lips and crossing his arms in front of his chest. Watching you for a moment, he spoke, “Do you remember when you asked me what my truth would’ve been? If Pinkner had asked me instead of JJ?”

“We should go to bed.”

“Wait, what’s your truth?”

“My truth is that I’m tired, we should go to sleep.”

Part of you wanted to ask if he wanted to do this now, after the day the two of you had, you’d be perfectly content with going home and leaving this conversation for tomorrow. Instead, you nodded, “Yes, you ignored it.”

Spencer chuckled nervously, “You had been spending weeks looking for a reason to pick a fight with me. I didn’t think you would accept my answer for what it was.”

“The truth,” you drew your own conclusion, shifting uncomfortably on the couch.

Slowly, he knelt on the ground in front of you, “You were looking for me to tell you that I shared JJ’s feelings. You wanted me to say that you were my second choice, but that has never, ever been my truth. It never has been.”

Swallowing thickly, you reached your hands out and took his in yours, gently skimming the pads of your thumbs over the back of his hands, “Spencer, truth or dare?”

“Truth,” he whispered.

“What’s your truth?” You asked him softly, approaching the topic like a deer in the woods.

He looked down at your intertwined hands, noting the fact that you had taken your ring off before he responded, “I’ve spent my entire life trying to live up to the expectations of others. I went to Caltech, then MIT, and then I was recruited to the BAU. Through all that, I was under the impression that I was letting people down.”

This was a familiar conversation to you. You once spent hours talking him off of a metaphorical ledge because he hadn’t cured schizophrenia.

“I’m not the perfect son, who sent his mother away a week after turning eighteen,” an action that had almost gotten him killed. “I’m not a perfect agent and I’m not a perfect friend because the expectations set for me are too high, but I’m not a perfect boyfriend or fiancé either. It’s not because you hold me to a certain standard, it’s because I failed you.”

Your eyes widened at his admission, “Spencer, no, you didn’t.” Your chest ached at the thought of this living in his head. He had been living while paralyzed by the weight of the expectations of others when he just wanted one thing - to feel normal.

He waved you off, “Do you remember what you asked me? On that date in the shooting range?”

Seven years ago, shortly after Emily left for Interpol, you and Spencer had an impromptu date at the shooting range. “I asked you not to break my heart.”

“And I have, haven’t I? Time and time again,” he asked rhetorically, not looking for an answer even when you wanted to prove him wrong. “You’ve watched me get shot, you’ve seen me in handcuffs, beaten, kidnapped, fired – and you’ve never wavered. You have loved me through it all, and I haven’t reciprocated fairly. I had never known unconditional love, and I think you’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to it. I get put on this pedestal by everyone I meet and you’re the only person who has ever made me feel average. I know average is usually used with a negative connotation, but in this case, I mean it positively. You don’t have outlandish requests from me, all you’ve ever asked for is love, and I… I’m never going to be able to verbalize how much that means to me. How much you mean to me.”

“Spencer,” you tried to interject.

His eyes met yours, his brown irises slightly bleary as he looked at you intently, “I am so sorry. I’m sorry about your sister and I’m sorry about kissing Cat and I’m sorry about all of the ways I have broken your heart and if you… if this is where you need to call it, then I completely understand.”

“Spencer,” you echoed.

He tilted his head to the side, “What?”

You raised your eyebrows, “My ring is over there, on the coffee table, will you put it back on for me?”

“Do you mean it?” He asked, reaching behind him for the ring without waiting for your answer.

Holding out your left hand, you nodded, “There have been a lot of wrongs – from the both of us, but I don’t… I can’t hold the JJ thing against you anymore. You’re verifiably a genius. So, if you tell me that the only thing that would’ve pleased Cat is kissing her, then I’ll believe you. I trust you, and if I lose that, then I lose myself.”

He seemingly thought about it for a moment before responding, “It was the only thing I could think of, and I promise I will make this up to you.”

Smiling softly, you flexed your fingers once he slid the ring back on, relishing the feel of the metal on your finger. “Then it’s a good thing you’re only getting married once, it gives you a lot of time to make it up to me.”

“Did you have any ideas?” He asked a little too eagerly.

You beamed, “Oh, I have a few.”  

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[fatecantstopme]

Not Good Enough

Pairing: Dean Winchester x plus size!reader

Summary: You overhear Dean say some hurtful things about you to Sam and decide you need to change, much to Dean's dismay.

Warnings: cursing, mutual pining, mentions of violence, body issues/esteem issues, past trauma, illusions to eating disorders and sexual assault. SMUT, oral (M and F receiving), unprotected sex (P in V), dom/sub vibes, dirty talk.

You didn't like to think about your life before the Winchesters. Most of the time, it was easier to pretend you didn't have a past--no dark and morbid history to share, no pain and trauma still lingering deep within you.

Sam and Dean were the only ones you'd felt comfortable opening up to, and even that took years. Life had not been kind to you, and the scars on your body and in your mind were the proof.

Eight years ago, your hellish life took a turn for the better, but only after you almost lost it. You'd been walking home after a late night filled with bad decisions, when you were attacked. The man was fast, vicious, and cruel--taking what he wanted from you and leaving you for dead.

As fate would have it, the Winchester brothers were in town hunting a nest of vampires, and had been prowling around downtown waiting for one to make an appearance.

It was Dean who heard your screams, your cries for help, your sobs. It was Dean who came running into the dark alleyway without a thought for his own well-being. It was Dean who dropped to his knees beside your beaten and broken body...who took his jacket off and draped it over you to cover your mostly exposed form. It was Dean who gently scooped you into his arms and carried you to his car...and it was Dean that stood beside your hospital bed until you opened your eyes again.

Sam had eventually tracked down the man who had attacked you. It turned out, he had attacked several other women in the downtown area over the previous few months. Dean had been surprised to discover the man was just that--a man. Not a shapeshifter, a ghoul, a demon...not a vampire or a werewolf...just a man. His status as a human did not, however, make him any more safe from your avenging savior.

You'd never asked Dean exactly what had happened to your attacker, and he'd never talked about it. All you knew was he would never hurt anyone ever again.

It was unlike Dean to trust a stranger, and certainly out of character for him to confide in one, but there was something about you that seemed to draw him in. He felt as if he'd found a kindred spirit in you, someone who could understand him in a way even his brother couldn't.

Once you were on the mend, Dean made you an offer--one you were thankful you didn't refuse. You joined the brothers on their adventures--saving people, hunting things, the whole nine yards.

Overtime, you had become an integral part of their small family unit. Either brother would have died for you and you for them. There had been more than one close call for each of you over the past eight years, and more than one monster brutally slain to protect you.

You were closer in age to Sam, only a year younger than him, but Dean had always been the one you were closer to. Just as Dean had seen a kindred spirit in you, you had seen one in him. He understood you, he respected you, and he cared about you more deeply than anyone in your life ever had.

In the long years you'd spent in their constant company, you'd begun to change. The darkness that lived inside you seemed to fade, as if being near the Winchesters brought a light into your life you didn't know you needed. The mental scars you'd carried began to heal, even if the ones on your skin would always be visible.

There were still days where the darkness would rise within you, dark thoughts rolling through your mind, bringing you to your knees with a pain you could never describe. There were days when you would look in the mirror and hate the reflection gazing back at you--seeing the girl you had once been instead of the woman you now were.

There were moments when you'd forget all the progress you'd made, mind focusing instead on all of your flaws, all of your failures. The worst part was many of them lived only in your mind--you knew no one but you could see them, but that didn't make them any less real to you.

Lately, you had been struggling with self-esteem issues you'd long since buried. You'd thought you'd come to terms with who you were and what you looked like--accepted the body you had. Weight had been a struggle for you your entire life, and for a long time, you turned to terrible habits in order to lose weight and attempt to keep it off.

Those habits had ended eight years ago, but the issues they'd covered did not. Today was one of the bad days. One of the days you stared in the mirror and hated the image you saw--the softness, the curves, the fat. That was the word that kept repeating in your mind, fat, fat, fat.

You tried desperately to block it out, to remember why you loved your body just as it was, but those thoughts wouldn't leave you alone. The darkness inside you was too much to battle, the pain of hating yourself too much to cope with.

You'd been thankful for the bunker the day the three of you had discovered it, but you were even more grateful on days like today. Days you wanted to spend holed up in your room, refusing to face the outside world.

As much as you wanted to lay in bed for the entire day, your grumbling stomach soon became too much to ignore. You knew you needed to eat--there could be no more starving yourself, no more binging and purging--you needed to eat.

You dragged yourself out of bed and tugged on a pair of sweatpants before cautiously opening your bedroom door. You listened for the sounds of either brother moving around. Upon hearing none, you made your way slowly towards the kitchen, intent on making yourself a sandwich and retreating to the safety of your room.

Just before you rounded the corner to head into the kitchen, you heard Dean's low voice rumbling from inside. You froze in place, pressing yourself against the wall, not wanting to be seen or heard. You fully intended to creep back to your room--you really did--but the sound of your name leaving Dean's lips held you in place.

"(Y/N)'s not strong enough," Dean hissed. You could tell by the tone of his voice he was angry, very angry.

"Oh come on," Sam snapped. "She's been doing this for eight years. She's more than capable."

"Are you insane? I mean, really and truly crazy? She'll get herself killed!" Dean's voice had risen in volume and you heard Sam shush him quietly.

"Don't wake her up," Sam chided.

You heard Dean's annoyed sigh and your eyes fluttered closed for a moment. You knew what they were fighting about. You and Sam had a conversation a couple days ago about you hunting on your own. You'd asked for his thoughts and Sam had been honest and supportive. He said you were more than capable of hunting on your own, should he or Dean not be available to go with you. Your hunting skills were certainly not on their level, but if the case was simple enough, you would be fine.

Clearly Dean did not agree with his brother's assessment of your abilities. "She's not strong enough, or fast enough, or physically prepared to hunt on her own. She's just not, okay? She's different from us...she's not built like we are."

"Do you even hear yourself?" Sam asked incredulously.

You bit your lip to keep from whimpering aloud, Dean's words having cut straight through you like a hot knife. You blinked back your tears as you moved as quickly as possible back to your room without making noise.

Dean's words repeated on a loop inside your head, echoing your own darkest thoughts about yourself. Even Dean thought you were too fat, too weak, too useless to do anything on your own. You realized he likely only allowed you to hunt with him because he felt sorry for you--a pitying friendship you didn't ask for.

Despite the irrationality of your thoughts, you could not escape them. You couldn't fight them off, either because you didn't have the strength or because you were afraid they were right. Your mind once again played tricks on you, dragging you down into the darkness--but this time you succumbed, allowing your own tears to drag you into a nightmare fueled sleep.

Unbeknownst to you, Sam and Dean's conversation had continued in the kitchen. Neither of them had noticed your presence, both too upset with the other to focus on anything else.

"Look, (Y/N) is my best friend. Other than you, she's my favorite person...hell, I like her more than you sometimes," Dean confessed. "I just--I don't want to lose her. If we let her go out there without backup and something happens to her, I'll never forgive myself. I'd rather her never hunt at all, but I think she'd kill me if I told her to sit out on a fight just because I'm terrified of her dying."

Sam was quiet for a moment as he regarded his brother. Dean was not known for his vulnerability, nor for sharing any of his deeper emotions, but Sam could see something simmering just beneath the surface--some emotion beyond rage and fear lurked in his brother's green eyes.

"What are you really saying, Dean?" Sam asked quietly.

Dean looked at the floor for a long moment before answering. "When we met (Y/N), I was instantly drawn to her--like a moth to flame. I don't know what it was, but I felt connected to her in a way I'd never felt before. That feeling has only grown in the past eight years and now I can't imagine living life without her. I don't want to imagine it. A world without (Y/N) in it isn't a world I want to exist in."

Sam exhaled slowly, realization crossing his features. It was rare for Dean to care for someone so deeply, but when he did, he became irrationally protective. Sam was painfully familiar with that particular side of his brother's nature. He also knew what it meant, what Dean was really saying--even if he wasn't ready to admit it.

"You should talk to (Y/N)," Sam urged. "Both about how you feel, and about why you don't want her to hunt alone."

"What do you mean, 'how I feel'?"

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You know exactly what I mean." He didn't give his brother a chance to respond. He grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and walked out the door, claiming a need to workout.

Dean watched Sam walk away, and a feeling of mild terror settled into his bones. He'd come very close to admitting how he really felt about you and it scared him. Hell, his feelings scared him. The fact that he was foolish enough to fall in love was bad enough, but the fact that you were the one who'd stolen his heart made it so much worse.

He'd told himself he would never fall in love, never get married, never settle down--this life wasn't conducive to any sort of domestic bliss. Part of him didn't think he deserved that kind of happiness, but the main issue was the danger of loving you so deeply. He knew the risks, knew how it would turn out--bloody, like it always did.

In his mind, the only way he could keep you safe was to pretend all he felt for you was platonic friendship. He could protect you on hunts and his guard would never be down around you, so he could protect you in every way. He'd seen how far you'd come, how strong you now were, and there was no way he would be the reason the world lost your beautiful soul.

No one could ever know the truth, not even Sam. The only way this didn't end bloody was if you never even suspected Dean loved you. No monster would be able to use his love for you against you, no monster would ever hurt you just to get to him. For you, for your safety, he was willing to break his own heart.

**********

It had been three days since you'd overheard the conversation between Sam and Dean. The first two days, you'd remained secluded in your room, claiming a migraine any time either of the boys came to check on you.

This morning, however, you'd woken up with a goal. You showered, got dressed, and made your way to the kitchen. As you were fixing yourself some breakfast, you heard someone enter the room.

"You're up early," Sam said warmly.

You turned to glance at him with a soft smile. "I wanted to get a head start on the day."

Sam raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. "You're feeling better, I take it."

You nodded. "Yeah, that headache was brutal." You felt bad for lying, but it was easier to fein a migraine than it was to admit what you'd overheard and the dark thoughts you'd been plagued with.

"Well, I'm gonna go for a run," Sam said cheerfully. "Any chance I could entice you to come with me?"

You laughed and rolled your eyes. "Not unless someone's chasing me."

He chuckled and ducked out of the kitchen, taking a bottle of water with him. Sam always asked if you wanted to join him on his morning runs, but he knew you were unlikely to ever agree. You hated running almost as much as Dean did.

You ate your breakfast quietly, contemplating your plans for the day. You had decided to start a new routine today, a routine you intended to continue until you felt better about yourself or until you could get Dean's words out of your head, whichever came first.

After breakfast, you went into the library to do some reading, intending to allow your stomach time to digest your food. You weren't sure exactly how much time had passed, but Sam had returned from his run, showered, and was now eating his breakfast at the table while scrolling through the latest news stories on his computer.

Dean, unsurprisingly, was still not awake, despite the fact that it was 10am.

You closed your book and stood up. "I'll be down in the gym if you need me," you said to Sam as you crossed the room towards the door.

"You'll--what?"

You gestured towards the hall behind you. "I'll be in the gym."

He looked perplexed, but didn't comment on your sudden desire to workout. He could tell something was a little off with you, but he had the feeling you wouldn't want to talk about it, so he decided to let it go. After all, it's not like going to the gym was something he needed to worry about--it wouldn't kill you (unlike some of your previous bad choices).

When you reached the gym, you looked around and sighed. You'd always hated working out. It was a reminder how out of shape you were and how imperfect your body was. Sure, hunting kept you relatively healthy--you had surprising stamina and endurance, but the weight just never seemed to fall off. You'd begun to feel like your fat was holding some kind of grudge against you, intent on making your life miserable for some perceived slight.

You sighed again and walked over to the treadmill in the corner. You stared at it for a few minutes, deciding whether you really wanted to use it. You'd always hated the treadmill, but you needed to start somewhere, so you hopped on and started to walk at a brisk pace.

Thirty minutes later, you switched to the stationary bike, wanting a change from the monotony of walking. Twenty minutes after that, you were bored out of your mind. You decided to try something else. Maybe lifting weights would do the trick.

About two reps in, your headphones died and you groaned in annoyance. You tugged them out of your ears and tossed them to the floor, opting instead to blast your music loudly through the bluetooth speaker Sam kept down there.

Alanis Morissette's voice now carried down the hall, but you couldn't be bothered to care. She was your go-to when you were feeling angry or upset, her music always making you feel better, especially when you scream-sang along.

After a few more reps, you decided to work on your boxing skills. Sam had taught you years ago, mostly as a way to teach you some fighting skills. You wrapped your hands to protect your knuckles, settled into your stance, and began hitting the punching bag. The release of frustration you felt was almost immediate and you realized you should have just done this from the start.

Upstairs, Dean was just returning from running an errand. He'd woken up and been distressed to find they were out of bacon and beer--his two main food groups. He'd gone to the grocery store to restock and was now happily cooking an excessive amount of bacon for his breakfast.

"You know you should eat something besides bacon, right?" Sam teased him.

"Nothing is better than bacon, Sammy. Nothing." Dean scooped the rest of the bacon onto his plate with a look of glee.

"Heart attack on a plate," Sam muttered.

"Oh shut it," Dean grumbled as he bit into his first piece. He moaned obnoxiously, causing his brother to roll his eyes dramatically. "Where's (Y/N)?" He asked, words garbled by the bacon he was still chewing.

"What?"

Dean swallowed. "Where's (Y/N)? I stopped by her room before I went out and she was gone."

"She's in the gym."

"I'm sorry, she's what?"

Sam shrugged. "She's in the gym. She went down after breakfast."

"Why?"

"I assume to work out," Sam said lightly.

Dean groaned. "Obviously, smartass, but why was she gonna work out?"

"I don't know, dude. Why don't you ask her?"

Dean looked down at his plate. "I will once I finish my bacon."

Sam rolled his eyes, but didn't comment further.

Once Dean had finished his breakfast, he made his way down to the gym, a feeling of dread settling into his stomach. He couldn't really put a finger on why, only that he didn't like the feeling.

As he neared the gym, he heard 'You Oughta Know' blasting down the hallway. He didn't hear your voice over the lyrics until he actually entered the room. He would have smiled at the sight if he wasn't so worried about you.

Your back was to him as you continued to pummel the absolute shit out of the punching bag. Dean had to admire both your form and the power you exuded. But as he watched you, that feeling of dread began to creep higher into his chest, wrapping itself around his heart.

He called out your name, but you couldn't hear him over the music. He spotted the speaker and walked over to turn it off, plunging the room into a shocking silence.

You spun around, surprised to see Dean standing beside the speaker. "I, uhh, I called your name," he muttered sheepishly.

"Oh, sorry. I was kinda in the zone."

He nodded. "Yeah, I noticed. So, uh, whatcha doin'?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Working out...as one does in a gym."

He winced, feeling like an idiot. "I know that, but what I don't know is why."

"Why what?"

"Why are you suddenly working out in the gym for two straight hours? You hate the gym."

You stared at him with an unreadable expression. Your eyes were dark and your jaw was set as you regarded him. "You can't think of any reason?"

Dean thought about it for a moment. "No...hence why I'm asking."

You gestured to your body. "Because I'm not strong enough or fast enough or physically fit enough to hunt...sound familiar?"

Dean winced, eyes widening with realization. "(Y/N), I--"

You held up your hand. "No need to apologize, Dean. I realized you were right. I am weaker than you and Sam, I am slower and heavier and fatter--I am completely less physically capable than either of you. So obviously, I need to do something about that. Hence the gym."

Dean stared at her, anger darkening his features. "None of that is true."

"Of course it is, Dean. You said it yourself. I'm just agreeing with you."

"Of course you're not the same as us, (Y/N), but that has nothing to do with your body or your weight or your ability. We're men, and large ones at that. We're physically built different than you, but that doesn't mean you need to change anything about yourself to be more like us."

"Well clearly I do, or you wouldn't have found my body so unacceptable--you wouldn't have told Sam I'm not capable of hunting on my own."

Whatever thread was keeping Dean from yelling finally snapped. "Your body isn't unacceptable! You aren't weak! There is nothing wrong with you--nothing!"

You were stunned into silence by the intensity of his words. You didn't know how to react or what to say.

Dean sighed deeply, feeling the anger drain out of him at last. "You didn't hear the rest of our conversation, did you?" His voice was barely a whisper, but you could hear the raw emotion in it.

You shook your head.

"You should have stayed...you may have learned something."

"What would I have learned?" you asked quietly.

"You would have realized that your interpretation of my words wasn't at all how I meant them. You would have heard me tell Sam how terrified I am of losing you, how that fear makes me want to keep you out of this life--away from hunting entirely. You would have seen that I love you just the way you are--that I don't want you to change a single thing about yourself. You would know that I am the problem, not you...it was never you."

"Dean..." you whispered, unsure of what to say. "You...you don't need to try and make me feel better."

He stared at you, green eyes full of fire. "I'm not trying to make you feel better. I'm trying to be honest about my feelings--to make you see you the way I see you."

"Why now?"

He was taken aback by your question, and it took him several moments to respond. "You know how I feel about romantic attachments...I worry about losing the person I love most, simply because they were unlucky enough to be loved by me. The fear of losing another person I love or have them be used against me is a pain I'm not sure I can bear. But you--you deserve better than my fears. You are the light to my darkness, my reason for living. I can't stand the thought of you believing I think less of you, not when I would burn the world down to keep you safe."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" you whispered, a glimmer of hope sparkling in your voice.

Dean took a step towards you. "If you think I'm telling you that I've been in love with you for years, that I love every single part of you inside and out, that I don't want you to change a single thing, that I think you're perfect...then yes."

You exhaled sharply, breathing ragged as you stared into his soulful green eyes.

He crossed the short distance between you and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against his body, not caring about the sweat staining your body.

He practically crushed you against him, holding on more tightly than you'd ever imagined he would. After several moments, he loosened his grip on you so he could gaze down into your eyes. A small, lopsided smile graced his lips and his eyes fluttered shut. As his lips grazed against yours, you sighed softly, causing him to immediately deepen the kiss.

His hands dug into your soft flesh, seemingly reveling in the feeling of your body in his arms. His kiss was everything you'd imagined it would be and so much more--you felt safe, loved, and cherished. You didn't know you could have those feelings from a single kiss, but here you were, drowning in emotion, his love the life raft saving you from darkness.

When you finally parted, Dean rested his forehead against yours. "Do you believe me, (Y/N)? Can you see how much I love you? How badly I need you?"

"Yes," you breathed. "I believe you."

He sighed happily, breath mingling with yours. "Will you let me show you?"

You pulled away from him slightly so you could see his face better.

His eyes were dark with hunger, his gaze almost predatory. If you didn't know him, you would be frightened.

"Let me show you, sweetheart," he begged softly, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. "Let me show you how much I love your body--how badly I've wanted to touch it, mark it, make it mine. Let me touch every curve, kiss every scar--bite and lick and suck every pleasure point until you're a moaning mess in my arms. Let me make love to you the way you deserve."

No man had ever spoken to you like that, and you felt your toes curl at his words. If he could spark your body alive with nothing but words, you wondered what he was capable of doing with his body.

Your breathing was labored and your voice husky as you murmured, "How could I ever say no?"

Dean smirked and he tugged you to him again, lips crashing against yours. You felt his hands all over your body, clutching any part of you he could reach. His mouth left yours, lips trailing down your neck, nipping and sucking gently against the sensitive skin. He licked the column of your throat and groaned softly, muttering "salty" in a devilishly sexy voice.

You pulled away, suddenly remembering what you'd been doing when Dean interrupted you. "Wait--I-I need to shower first."

Dean groaned in annoyance. "No you don't."

You started to peel him off you with a light chuckle. "Yes, I do. I feel gross."

He pouted adorably. "For the record, I would make love to you on the sparing mat, right here, right now."

You laughed. "As hot as that might be, I really want to shower...I'll even let you join me." You shot him a wink and ran toward the door.

He realized what you'd said and turned to run after you, chasing you all the way to the showers. You giggled when he caught you, tugging you to him to kiss at your exposed neck and shoulders.

"Shower!" you squealed.

He groaned. "Fine, fine."

He practically dragged you into the bathroom, turning away from you to turn on the water before tugging you into the shower with him.

"Dean, our clothes--"

"They'll dry," he grumbled, fingers tugging on your shirt to lift it over your head.

You allowed him to remove it, neither of you paying attention to where it landed as he tossed it out of the shower. He did the same with his own shirt and jeans, followed by your leggings.

He spun you around, so your back was pressed against the cold tile, water spraying across your chest. He unzipped your sports bra and you allowed it to fall to the ground, revealing your heavy breasts to his wanton eyes.

"Fuuuuck," he groaned, lips attaching to your pert nipple.

You ran your hands through his hair as he continued his gentle assault on your breasts. His lips didn't leave your chest, even as his hands trailed down to slowly peel off your underwear.

He slipped two fingers between your folds, collecting your slick and pressing firmly against your clit. You moaned softly at the sensation, head falling back against the tile.

He removed his fingers, slipping them between his lips and sucking them dry. "I need more," he murmured hungrily.

He dropped to his knees and grabbed your right leg, slinging it over his shoulder before you could utter a word. You started to complain that you needed to wash the sweat off first, but he ignored you, tongue sweeping between your folds without a care.

Any protests you may have had were lost as he worked his magic on your pussy. Your fingers twisted into his short hair, head back, mouth open, drowning in the pleasure he was giving you. You were thankful for the tile you leaned against and his strong arms holding you in place as he feasted on you.

Your legs began to shake and you cried out his name seconds before your orgasm hit you, sending you spiraling into bliss. Dean didn't want to stop, but your hands weakly tugged on his hair and your legs began to buckle, so he pulled himself up to keep you from falling.

"Delicious," he whispered against your mouth as he pressed another kiss to your lips.

You wrapped your arms around his neck to hold him closer to you and he shifted to press his body tightly against yours. You gasped as his still clothed member brushed against your thigh and your hands instantly slid down his body to rid him of the annoying fabric.

"Wanna touch you," you begged softly.

He groaned, but pulled away from your reach.

"Dean," you whined.

"Shh, let me wash you first," he insisted.

"But--"

He cut you off with a kiss. "Let me worship you before you touch me--I wanna make this about you."

Your expression softened and you leaned into him. "I love you, Dean."

Your voice was a low whisper, but he heard it all the same. You hadn't said the words earlier, a fact he had been trying to ignore. Hearing you say them now nearly had him throwing all his plans for the next week out the window--wanting to do nothing more than worship you from dusk to dawn for the foreseeable future.

"Dean?" you whispered warily, concern filling your eyes.

He used all his self-control to push his own needs and wants aside. "I heard you, baby," he assured you. "I heard you."

His kiss was gentler this time, sweeter even, and it warmed your body from the inside out. He broke away, panting, a whispered "I love you" pressed into your skin as he made his way down your body and back up again.

After what felt like an eternity, he grabbed the shower gel and loofa and slowly began to lather you up, washing your body in a surprisingly sensual way. When he finally decided you were clean, he helped you under the spray and made sure all the suds were rinsed off.

"Can I touch you now?" you begged.

He smiled warmly. "I suppose I can allow it." He forced his voice to be steady and calm, despite the desire screaming inside of him--begging him to take you well and properly.

You sunk to your knees, gaze lifting to meet his. You gave him a shy smile before taking his cock in your soft hands. He was larger than average, but you weren't afraid of the pain. Instead, you focused on giving him the same intense pleasure he had given you.

When you wrapped your lips around his cock, his head fell back and a groan escaped his parted lips. His fingers danced across your scalp, gathering your hair to one side so he could see you properly.

"Shit, sweetheart," he mumbled. "You're taking me so well."

You moaned around him, pleased with the praise he offered you. You continued to work him, using your tongue to caress and tease him in ways he'd never experienced before.

He wasn't at all surprised by your skill, but he was surprised by how damn good it felt. Sure, it had been a while for him, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten a blow job that made his knees weak--if ever.

"Shit, baby," he whispered. "I'm so close--gonna cum for you."

His fingers raked through your wet hair and he used his other hand to lean against the tiles behind you. His hips jutted forward slightly as you relaxed your throat, taking him as far back as you could.

You flattened your tongue against his cock and flexed it, repeating the motion a few times before Dean's grip on your hair became painful and he exploded into your throat with a cry of your name.

You swallowed everything he had to give you, not releasing him from your lips until he pulled away, forcing the two of you to separate.

Dean leaned back against the shower wall and pulled you towards him, trying to support his weak legs while also helping you up. Once you were on your feet, he tugged you into him and placed a feverish kiss to your lips.

He panted heavily when he finally released you from his tight grip, allowing you to suck in some much needed air.

"Where did you learn how to do that thing with your tongue?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

You smirked. "It's a natural talent."

He grinned. "Well I fucking love it."

You laughed and leaned back into him, capturing his lips in a sweeter kiss. "So what are your thoughts on continuing this elsewhere?"

"Well my plan was to make you moan my name for the next several hours...I don't care where we go, as long as you're willing to let me ruin you."

Your thighs clenched together involuntarily and you moaned softly, biting into your bottom lip to keep the sound from being too loud. "My room?"

"My room is closer," he murmured into your shoulder.

You smiled and backed away from him, causing him to pout. You turned the water off and continued to back out of the shower. You grabbed a towel and wrapped it around yourself, which only served to upset Dean.

"What do you think you're doing?" he growled.

Your eyes widened. "Putting on a towel so we can go to your room..."

"Did I say you could hide your body from me?" His tone was shockingly dominant and a spark of need went straight to your core.

"No," you whispered.

"I didn't think so." He stepped forward, dominance oozing from every pore in his body. "Drop the towel. Now."

You gasped softly, but heeded his command. The towel fell to the floor and he took yet another predatory step in your direction.

"Don't you ever hide yourself from me again. I wanna see every inch of your body." His hands grabbed at your hips roughly, tugging you towards him forcefully. "You're mine, do you understand me? Mine."

While the idea of someone owning you would normally piss you off, in this context it was a shocking turn-on. You swallowed thickly as you stared up into his heated gaze, suddenly unable to move, or even breathe.

He leaned down to kiss along your jaw towards your ear. He breathed slowly against your skin, causing you to shiver and clutch his arms for support. "Is this okay?" he whispered, voice still gruff, but much more loving.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to form actual words.

"Baby, I need you to tell me with your words. I need you to say whether this is okay or not. I don't wanna do something you're not into."

You turned your head a little so you could see his bright green eyes. The look in his eyes was reflected in your own and there was no doubt or fear in your voice when you answered him. "I'm very into it."

Your reassurance was all he needed to fall back into the dominant role. "Then you'd better get your ass into my bed before we have a problem."

You turned to open the door, yelping slightly when his hand smacked your ass. You shot him a surprised look and he looked slightly sheepish.

"Sorry, baby...I couldn't resist. You've got a great ass."

You smirked at the compliment and gave him a little wiggle before rushing into the hallway and making a beeline for his bedroom door.

He was surprised by your teasing action, but it only made him smile. He chased after you, mumbling, "Oh you're in for it now, princess."

You giggled as you landed on his bed, crawling up towards the headboard as he came through the doorway. He shut the door behind him and stalked to the edge of the bed, fiery gaze locked on you.

"It's unfair how sexy you look right now," he growled. "Makes me wanna fuck you senseless--make you scream my name until your voice is hoarse."

You gulped, trying to hide behind false bravado. "Are you going to do that from the other side of the room?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Don't be a brat."

"Why don't you come here and do something about it."

Dean practically jumped onto the bed, climbing on top of you and caging you beneath him in seconds. His cock was hard again, pressing against your thigh--a reminder of how badly he wanted you.

"Not so mouthy now are you?"

"Dean, I--"

"Hush," he murmured as he leaned down to kiss you. He shifted just enough so his cock brushed against your core, and you gasped into his mouth.

"How badly do you want me right now, (Y/N)?" he asked, voice rough with need.

"I've never wanted you more," you answered honestly.

He groaned lowly. "How do you want it? You want me to fuck you into this mattress or take it nice and slow?"

"Fuck me into the mattress," you begged softly. "Please."

"Jesus--I love when you beg for me," he growled.

"Fuck me, Dean," you pleaded. You weren't above begging, especially when it came to him.

Dean gripped his cock in his right hand and lined himself up with your entrance. He started to push in, trying to move slowly to avoid hurting you as much. "You're so fucking tight, baby," he whispered against your lips.

You gripped his biceps harshly, nails digging into his skin. The stretch was unbelievable, both painful and pleasurable all at once.

"You okay?" he whispered softly.

You nodded.

"Babe," he said in a warning tone.

"I'm okay--keep going."

He continued to push into you and your back arched as his cock brushed against your cervix. You whimpered at the feeling of fullness, and Dean struggled to remain motionless until you told him it was okay to move.

"I need you to move, Dean--please."

He pulled himself up slightly and started a very gentle pace, still allowing you time to adjust. The last thing he wanted was to make this painful or uncomfortable for you. He didn't give a damn about his enjoyment--all he wanted was to watch you fall apart over and over again.

"Your pussy feels incredible, baby," he groaned. "I could stay here forever."

He began to move more quickly and your breathing became more erratic as you reveled in the pleasure of the moment. Your moans were like music to his ears, spurring him on as he slid into you again.

"I love the sounds you're making, sweetheart. I wanna hear you."

He picked up his pace and shifted you into a new position so he could get even deeper inside you. You cried out as he hit your g-spot, pussy clamping down on his cock in response.

"Shit--" he groaned. "You're squeezing me so tight--taking my cock so fucking well, gorgeous."

Your back arched again and your head was tossed back, pressing into the pillows at the head of the bed. Your hands twisted in the sheets, unable to reach his arms or his back as he slammed into you repeatedly.

He knew you were close, but he wasn't ready to feel you cum yet. "Look at me, baby."

He waited until your hazy eyes met his.

"Don't cum until I tell you to, understand?"

Your eyes widened. "But, Dean--"

"Not until I give you permission," he said firmly.

You nodded rapidly, not wanting to risk your orgasm altogether.

"Good girl."

You moaned loudly and your pussy clenched tightly around his cock, causing him to echo the sound.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned. "You like it when I praise you, huh? You wanna hear about how much I love this pussy? How I've been thinking about fucking you for years? How I've craved your body?"

You were practically breathless beneath him, unable to formulate a response or even acknowledge his words.

"Your pussy is fucking perfect," he continued. "Made for me. And this body? Gorgeous and soft and fucking delicious. Can't believe I get to touch you like this--make you feel so good."

"Dean, please," you begged breathlessly.

"Not yet, sweetheart."

You whimpered, but continued to focus on staving off your impending orgasm.

"Who owns this pussy, baby?"

You didn't answer--too focused on not cumming until he gave you permission.

His grip on your legs tightened, bringing your attention back to him. "That's it, pretty girl, look at me. Tell me who owns this pussy."

"You," you gasped out.

"That's right. This pussy is mine. I'm the only one who gets to touch you like this--make you moan and whimper and scream. No one else."

"Only you," you cried.

"Fuck--" His breathing had become ragged and he had begun to struggle to keep himself from orgasming.

"Please," you whimpered.

"Please what, baby?"

"Let me cum!" you begged.

Dean decided to take pity on you. "Cum for me, baby."

"Dean!" you screamed as your orgasm ripped through you. The pleasure so white hot and blinding you nearly blacked out.

Dean helped you ride out the waves of pleasure before lowering himself back down to hover over you. He placed soft kisses to your heated skin and whispered, "You're so damn beautiful when you cum."

You were gulping down mouthfuls of air, but you heard his whispered words. "I love you," you murmured.

He groaned softly. "Love you more."

He picked his pace back up, intent on giving you another orgasm before allowing himself to cum.

It didn't take long for him to work you back up, letting you hang on the precipice of blissful pleasure once more.

"You feel so good beneath me, baby. I love watching your pretty face as you fall apart. I just can't get enough of you," he admitted.

Your nails dug into his back, indicating you also couldn't get enough of him. "Dean, I need more," you pleaded.

"Touch yourself for me, baby. I want you to cum before I fill you up."

You lowered your hand down and slipped it between your bodies. You found your clit with ease and began to gently toy with it, sending pulses of toe curling pleasure up your spine.

"Fuck, yes. That's it baby. God, this pussy is addicting...don't ever wanna stop."

"So close," you whimpered.

"Yeah, sweetheart? You wanna cum?"

"Please, Dean."

"How badly?"

"Dean," you whined.

"Be a good girl and tell me how badly you wanna cum for me and maybe I'll let you."

"Please-please-please," you begged. "I wanna cum so bad. I need to cum, Dean, please!"

As much as he loved prolonging your orgasm, he couldn't bear saying no to you. "Cum for me, sweetness," he whispered into your ear.

Your body began to shake as the dam broke once again. You cried out as the pleasure invaded all of your senses, overwhelming you completely.

Dean began to chase his own high, desperately needing to fill you up with his seed. "You're the only woman who makes me lose control," he whispered into your skin.

You were surprised by his words, but they warmed your heart. Dean wasn't the kind of man to lose control often, so the fact that you made him do so was a massive ego boost.

"I wanna feel you fill me up, Dean," you murmured. "Need your cum inside me."

"Fuck," he growled, teeth grazing your pulse point.

His hips began to stutter as he reached his peak. Your nails scraped along his back, giving him the last push he needed to fall over the edge. He came with a guttural growl of your name, ropes of hot cum filling your pussy.

His arms started to feel weak as his orgasm came to an end, and he collapsed on top of you, crushing you beneath his larger frame. You couldn't have been bothered to care if he'd literally smothered you--you were too fucked out to form coherent thoughts.

After a while, Dean managed to pull himself off of you, only to collapse on the bed beside you. He reached for you, strong arms wrapping around your waist to tug you into his chest.

"You're so damn incredible, (Y/N/N)," he whispered into your shoulder, lips pressing soft kisses there. "I don't think I've ever cum that hard--and you managed to do it twice."

"I can't feel my legs and my head is fuzzy," you mumbled. "So I second all of that."

Dean chuckled softly and held you even tighter. "I love you," he murmured. "More than you'll ever know."

"I think I have some idea," you whispered back. "And I love you just as much."

Dean smiled, feeling truly happy for the first time in as long as he could remember. He knew he should get up, help you clean up and all that, but he couldn't get himself to move and you weren't complaining. In fact, your breathing had evened out and he had a feeling you'd be asleep soon.

He kissed your shoulder one more time before resting his head comfortably on the pillow, feeling more relaxed than he had in a while. Just as sleep threatened to claim him, he heard his brother's voice from the other side of the closed door.

"While I'm super happy for you both, I have one request. Next time the two of you decide to fuck each other's brains out, could you at least have the decency to wait until I'm gone? I can't un-hear any of that!"

You laughed lightly and you could feel Dean's laughter rumbling in his chest from behind you.

"We'll do our best," Dean called back. "But no promises! She's simply too hot to resist--you never know when I'll get the urge to ravish her."

You laughed even harder, but you reached behind you to lovingly smack his hip.

"Ohh gross, dude!" Sam grumbled before walking away, leaving the two of you alone again.

"You're so bad, Dean Winchester."

"I didn't hear you complaining when I was making your legs shake ten minutes ago."

You tossed him a grin over your shoulder. "I didn't say it was a bad thing."

He matched your grin. "Touché, my love. Touché."

[writingsfrombeyondthegrave]

Helloooo there!

Just wanted to say that I absolutely loved the Astrid x ghost!reader fic and was wondering if you were considering doing a part two?? maybe Astrid finds a way to save them and they end up dating or something?

I hope you Have a lovely day! Xx

An Accidental Haunting Part 2

Astrid Deetz x Ghost!Reader

*Platonic to Romantic*

Requested by anon

Summary- Now that Astrid could see you clearly, an unlikely friendship formed. She wanted nothing more than to be with you now that you two had gotten the chance to spend more time together. She would find a way for you two to be a couple. A proper living couple.

Warnings- Reader was m*rdered, Details about death and the afterlife, angst, depression, mention of cancer, trading one life for another, kissing

The afterlife is a complex thing than many humans never truly understand. Ghosts, often thought of as a figment of the imagination or a misguided illusion of the light, were more real than Astrid had ever anticipated.

Admitting her mother wasn't crazy was a big step in her life. Not to mention the fact that she was gaining feelings for a ghost, this time while knowing about the fact you were deceased. Your morbid humor, self-deprecating jokes and obscene amount of knowledge on the paranormal had a death grip on her heart.

Death was much more interesting with Astrid in your life. You didn't feel the dread or crushing depression as much as before. Sometimes you dare say, you felt more alive than you had when you were actually living.

Lydia had decided to move back into the old "Ghost House" after Astrid had begged her, claiming that she would even consider going to Miss Shannon's School for Girls until graduation. It was only one year away, but she had been adamant about it.

In the end, it happened to be a convenient idea. Lydia's Tv show career had ended and she opted to be an in-area Psychic for those in need. Somehow, however with your meticulous hiding, she never once saw you in the house. You have been very deliberate about keeping your identity there a secret between only you and Astrid.

"I hate to say it, but that uniform is lame" You spoke as you laid back on her bed with a teasing smirk, head tilted in her direction as she tried on the uniform, smoothing down the skirt.

She turned to you and raised an eyebrow, challenging you. "At least I don't have an old rock shirt than looks like you scraped it off of an 80s arcade floor."

"Ha. Ha." you laughed emotionlessly, tossing a stuffed bear at her to defend your honor. "Arcades are fun, but nice try at trying to offend me beautiful"

The smirk that remained on your lips made her heart skip a beat, but she would rather die than tell you how much power you held over her. Your nonchalant flirting always hurt, knowing it never held much meaning behind your words, but she continued to ignore it in favor of her sanity.

"Tell me again" Astrid said as she sat beside you on the bed, making the mattress bounce lightly. "What's it like to die?"

The quietness between you both stretched for a moment before you answered. "It's different for everyone. For some its peaceful, for some its painful."

"I meant for you personally, what was it like?"

Your amused laugh echoed through her room. "What was it like to be stabbed brutally to death? Just a normal Tuesday, of course"

No matter how many times you talked to her about the afterlife, you were always careful to leave out the specifics of your own death. The last thing you ever wanted from anyone was sympathy, especially from her. Sadness should never be an emotion she felt when you were around. So, you opted to made jokes and avoided those awkward looming moments of despair and helplessness.

Instead of laughing, she seemed to be deep in thought. "What if there was a way to bring you back?" She spoke so soft that you almost missed it, but of course you didn't. Instantly you sat up on her bed and faced her properly, startling her a bit at your sudden movement.

"Are you crazy? You of all people should know that's a terrible idea, Astrid. It's a life for a life, a crazy scheme that only the self-centered scumbags would pull"

"I know... I know. But you didn't deserve to die"

You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. "You don't know that. you don't know me! I'm a freak, Astrid! Thats why I'm dead, no one wanted to talk to me. Everyone feared me because the only people who understood me were already dead!" The screams you sent her way felt like daggers piercing her skin. There hadn't been a single moment up until now that you had acted any other way besides happy.

Without warning you vanished from sight, completely dematerializing Infront of her eyes. She stared in shock at the wall Infront of her, not knowing how to react.

All of a sudden it hit her, you needed her help to come back alive and she would do anything in her power to help you, even if that meant seeking out her mother for guidance.

The instant regret you felt after yelling at Astrid was eating at you from the inside out. Your knees were pulled up to your chest while you sat in a rickety old rocking chair. You looked over at the town model in the attic to distract yourself from falling even further into the darkness.

What you never mentioned to any of the spirits you helped, was that the longer the dead lingered on the living plain, the quicker your soul decays. The deceased were to move on after dying, in favor of protecting what mortality they died with. Your soul fades and your own morals that you once valued in life start to get corrupted.

"The Darkness" as you referred to it was the depressive black hole that swallows the last remaining happiness and hope that you hold onto. If you let yourself get sucked into that darkness, you may never find your way out of it again.

That is how some spirits get sucked into a loop, replaying their death and their most horrible moments over and over again until there is nothing left of their soul.

Smiling seemed to be your coping mechanism to avoid this, always happy and never upset over trivial things. Never allowing yourself the simple happiness that the living still enjoyed and took for granted.

Lydia was cooking in the kitchen when she heard rapid footsteps descending down the staircase. Astrid stopped and stood in the doorway, looking at her mother blankly for a moment. She couldn't believe how much progress that they've accomplished, yet she feared the awkward tension would always be there lingering.

"I... I need your help."

Lydia stopped what she was doing to look at her daughter in shock. "You do?" She dried her hands with the kitchen towel and quickly turned her full attention to her. "Of course, what do you need?"

"The handbook. I know you kept the one that the Maitlands had and I need to see it"

"Why would you need that?"

"I'm interested in your work" Astrid lied, forcing a small smile that she hoped was more than convincing. The smile that Lydia provided could've lit up every dark corner in the house.

After moping in your sorrows for the better part of that night, you finally appeared in Astrid's room the next morning, an apology ready on your tongue before you saw what she was doing. She was furiously flipping through The Handbook for the Recently Deceased, writing down notes in an old notebook.

You cautiously stepped up next to her and looked over her shoulder. "What could you possibly need that book for? You're not dead, babe."

She looked up at you, realizing your looming presence near her. The bags under her eyes were the only indicator that you needed to show her lack of sleep. Her body physically relaxed from its tense stance at seeing you back in her room. "I have the perfect plan on how to bring you back to life"

You groaned and flopped down into her beanbag chair dramatically. It seemed like your usual playful behavior was back at least. "Why must the living be so stubborn?"

"We are going on a trip, come on" She closed the book and tossed it in your direction, clearly expecting you to catch it. It hit the wall behind you with a heavy thud, thankfully not indenting it. You slowly turned your head to look at the book and then back to her.

"Did you really expect a different outcome?"

Astrid hugs her bag over her shoulder with the handbook in it, waiting for you to grab ahold of her so she could start her ride to the town's nursing home. After a deep sigh you hook your leg over the seat and wrap your arms around her midsection.

Your touch felt like a winter chill, but her body had never been warmer. Her heart beat quickly and she prayed you couldn't detect it. Your chin rested on her shoulder as you looked around the town.

You never were a very affectionate person in life, but for Astrid, you made an exception. There was no fear in her eyes when she looked at you now, and that made you feel as if you were finally home again.

The ride to the nursing home was quiet and quick. Astrid greeted the staff with a quick smile, claiming to be visiting her grandmother.

An argument soon broke out between the two of you as you crossed your arms, not happy by what she was proposing.

"Ms. Silvers has been in pain for years from the cancer. Death was inevitable anyway so what's the issue? She seems fine with it" She argued, and you just tilted your head, unconvinced. It was silent for a few minutes before you finally nodded your head, not being able to find a good enough argument to disagree with her plan.

Ms. Silvers was a good sport as you all headed to the cemetery together. She was a sweet old lady with a cane who seemed to be admiring the world through aged eyes.

"My husband loved this time of year" She spoke, her voice scratchy. "I just know he's been waiting for me. Thank you for this, Lovey"

Astrid smiled, walking beside her and making sure she was alright. You looked over at them, still cautious about the whole thing. Your entire life, you had never put yourself before anyone. This felt wrong, yet the old woman beside you could've been the strongest woman alive now. She had more courage than you could've imagined and you admired that.

The quiet Winter air blew past them, and she didn't so much as shiver.

After repeating the incantation in the crypt and entering, you decided it was best to lead the way. You had been to this part before when you first died. Youve come a long way and grown as a person since then. The confident look you always wore wavered slightly, but they couldn't see it since you were far ahead.

The picture for the transfer was about to be taken when Ms. Silvers reached over to give your hand a reassuring squeeze. "Young love is a powerful thing. Take care of each other, alright?"

You couldn't help the smile that overcame your features as you nodded, giving her hand a squeeze in return. "Tell your husband we said hi, would you?"

The transfer went smoothly, and you both walked her to the soul train together. Once inside the train, she sent you both a sweet smile and a wave before she departed.

Your body healed almost instantly; no indications left behind of what had happened to you. Your shirt however, still remained in shambles.

Crawling out of the crypt, you felt as if a rush of air filled your lungs. Your feet met the grass of the graveyard, and the world moved with you instead of without you. It acknowledged your presence and welcomed you with open arms.

You turned to Astrid with a bright smile. "I don't know how to thank you"

"Oh... it was nothing, really." Astrid laughed awkwardly, turning away to avoid your gaze. You looked at her as if she hung the very stars in the sky. The blood flowing through your veins and the shine of your lively skin looked heavenly to her, and she had to stop herself from staring in awe.

Without warning you cupped her face in your hands and kissed her softly, afraid that you might vanish from existence yet again. Her eyes widened in shock before she allowed herself to relax to your touch. Her hands instinctively held your hips, just barely. You pulled away after a moment and rested your forehead against hers.

"Even when I was dead and I couldn't feel anything, I swore I could feel the pounding of my dead heart as if it was beating for you. I'm afraid it will only ever beat for you now that I'm alive again"

She laughed, smiling freely as she looked into your eyes. "Thats the cheesiest thing I've ever heard you say, you dork"

"So, if I asked to kiss you again it wouldn't be as cheesy?" You smirked, and she swore she could get used to this every day for the rest of her life.

Extra:

"Now that your alive, can you finally change that crusty t-shirt?" Astrid teased, holding your hand tightly as you walked back to her house.

You pretended to think about it before laughing "Yes, Ma'am" You winked.

A/N- Thank you lovely anon for requesting a part 2! I have another Astrid fic lined up and, in the works, currently along with the lost boys and others. Please continue to send in requests and I'll get to them as soon as possible. Thank you all for the love on my writing, it means so so much to me.

If there is a possible part 3 wanted it would probably just be filled with little incidents when Astrid now saves the readers life because they forget they’re alive now and could actually get hurt.

If anyone wants to be tagged in any sort of tag list (doesn’t just have to be for Astrid fics), please let me know!

Also, I apologize for the extensive knowledge of the paranormal that I have lol. The afterlife has always fascinated me.

Credits-

Ghost and Graveyard Dividers- @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

[gay-dorito-dust]

Summary: Wednesday seems to be happy this morning…who died?

Something must’ve occurred overnight, or your were being optically deceived via an illusion but Wednesday Addams was…smiling? Quite frankly it creeped you out. Not to say that she shouldn’t smile, that wasn’t what you were trying to say; Wednesday looked beautiful when she smiled but there was a significant difference in her smiles that to anyone else -other then yourself and Enid- they would look identical.

“You look to be in a good mood this morning Wednesday, who’s the unfortunate soul to have died for a smile to grace your abysmal gravestone of a face?” You asked whilst making yourself a drink and a bite to eat. The girl merely scoffed at your words, her lips secretly upturned behind her drink that she used for cover. “It’ll be you should you continue to pester in my affairs.” She said coldly, yet she did nothing when you moved to press a kiss to the side of her head as you passed her by.

“She saw Headmistress Weems fall down a flight of stairs.” Enid answered as she came into the room in obnoxiously loud sleepwear. “It was an exquisite sight.” Wednesday defended herself before casting her dark gaze over at you where they twinkled with a sense of morbid delight. “You should’ve been there to see it y/n, you surly would have appreciated it,” She paused briefly as her eyes darted over to Enid, “unlike our dear Enid here who screamed bloody murder.”

The blonde made a noise of offence as she turned to confront your darkly clothed girlfriend, arms crossed like an disappointed mother about to scold her child for eating mud. “She could’ve gotten hurt! Or worse!” “That would’ve made for quite the viewing pleasure.” Wednesday replied, unfazed as she took a long sip of her drink while you could only attempt to hide your laughter at the horrid look on Enid’s face. The pair continued their back and fourth for a little while longer as you acted as their silent spectator; Watching on in amusement as Enid questioned Wednesday’s morals and as Wednesday made no attempt in objecting to the obvious.

“Thank you Nevermore.” You said solely to yourself, “I guess you were useful for something after all.”

[canmom]

finished Carmilla. what a wonderfully silly novel that was. I need to download an ebook to count how many times Le Fanu uses the word 'languid'.

that said, reading with modern eyes, I think it's a bit of a victim of many subsequent novels elaborating on vampires, and some of the conventions of Victorian literature - in particular, the rule that the narrator has to survive in order to recount the tale, and the evil must be overthrown and tied up neatly. worse, Laura ends up an entirely passive character, with the final resolution seeing Carmilla killed by a couple of side characters, one of whom hasn't even been mentioned up to that point.

the novel is at its best when Carmilla and Laura are interacting. I would have liked to see Laura return Carmilla's affections a bit more, rather than just being like 'well that was weird' every time Carmilla lezzes it up or says something hilariously morbid. but there is definitely humour in her being very literally the straight girl.

I've seen subsequent adaptations of Carmilla, notably my friend Maki @mxmy's Dr Carmilla character, who's - at least in what is released so far - a space vampire with a habit of picking up waifs and strays and turning them into immortal pirates, something which tends to end badly for everyone. the other is (if anyone still remembers) the 2014 Carmilla web series on youtube, which is set in a college dormitory in the States, and presents Carmilla in a more positive light. in the end, I was a little surprised to find both these works take little other than the premise of 'lesbian vampire called Carmilla' and her relationship with a girl called Laura or Lorelei. the web series pulls in a few other names from the novel but completely reframes the situation, adding a new male vampire who is exploiting Carmilla to act as a villain (it was 2010s pop-feminism, you know how it goes). Dr Carmilla currently only vaguely hints at the relationship between Carmilla and Lorelei in the released songs, but involves a new apocalyptic scenario (I think that's about all I can say) - but it does at least keep Carmilla as an itinerant traveller, and keeps the tragic air of the story.

it is not entirely made clear in the novel if the waking Carmilla is aware of her vampiric excursions. it's easy to suppose while reading it that she's just a good liar who's taking them all for a ride, and I think that's still the best supported interpretation, but I think there's equally a reading where she's unaware of the whole vampire thing, and genuinely likes this daft straight girl Laura and before her, the general's daughter. if she is aware, she's really bad at covering her tracks, particularly with her disappearing act. the whole anagram schtick is explicitly named as a rule she has to operate under, but there's plenty she does to tip off her victims and their families. perhaps the point is that she's just charismatic enough to get away with it.

the character of carmilla's mother is a thread that never quite seems to get resolved. the natural assumption is that she's another vampire, dropping her daughter off in a new feeding ground - but since the ending acts like Carmilla was the only surviving vampire, I wonder if perhaps she should be taken as an illusion conjured by Carmilla, perhaps the reason she has to be sent away on a mysterious carriage ride as soon as possible in each instance?

the vampire is traditionally taken to be in part a symbol of the feudal past of cruel aristos persisting and corrupting the rational present, something that makes plenty of sense for Dracula, but in Carmilla's case, nearly every character is a castle-dwelling aristocrat of some sort, and the peasants and servants are treated as mostly beneath notice by the narrative and characters (one scene that stands out has Carmilla, feeling insulted by a trinket seller, idly talk about how in her day she'd have called for his bloody execution - a comment that seems to bother Laura very little). the main characters are even related to Carmilla's family. perhaps just a case of early iterations of an idea, not yet fully formed.

one thing I do like about Carmilla is the amount of physical affection - Carmilla is constantly touching and kissing Laura, and while Le Fanu probably didn't mean this the way we would today, it provides for strong images of sickly Carmilla draping herself all over her new object of affections, like she's acquired a new favourite doll. I can see why this is widely understood as a lesbian novel even though it's very Victorian; it's kinda dark yuri, like Carmilla is coming into the lives of these lonely girls and kind of lovebombing them with expressions of affection and devotion, and whomst among us... it would take many more decades of horny writers to really get into the eroticism of vampiric blood drinking itself though, which here largely takes place in a deniable way, while Laura is sleeping.

despite the reputation for Victorian novels to be long and rambling, this was a rather brisk book. I honestly wish it was a bit longer - a very obvious addition would be a chance for Laura to talk to Carmilla once she's finally figured out the vampire thing, instead of rushing to the ending. it seemed Le Fanu was more interested in explaining vampires (fucked up amirite), which makes sense for the time, but nowadays we all know what the deal is with vampires and instead the core relationship is the interesting part. ah well! it's worth the time to read.

[isagrimorie]

I rewatched episode 7 again, Death’s Hand in Mine and I have a sudden, morbid realization.

I’m going to put this under the cut because if I’m right it could be a huge spoiler, but also my theory might depress some people. (Hint: this has nothing to do with Agatha and Rio. Or, no, it has something to do with Rio but it doesn’t have anything to do with her romantic relationship with Agatha).

This has something to do with Lilia’s reading and her possible fate.

Fair warning just in case the spoiler cut doesn’t work.

SPOILER SPACE

——

The Death card doesn’t usually mean the person who gets the card dies. Death means sudden transformation.

But, in Lilia’s case, I think… I think it does mean Lilia is truly dead. Because as they cycle through all the evidence of who Rio is, Lilia’s destination, Lilia’s Road leads right back into the moment where she fell into the Westview tunnel.

This is where Lilia finally comes face to face with Rio’s true form, Death.

I’ve wondered why Rio chose that moment to be face to face with Lilia and (re)introduce herself. I thought one of possibility is that in that gap Lilia actually made a bargain with Death, or something.

And then, I realized, as I re-wound the scene with a sudden heartrending realization.

There is a reason why Death showed up in that cavern.

Because at that moment where Lilia fell… she died.

The Lilia we saw walking the tunnels with Jen, reading her own Tarot card did make a bargain with Death. And Lilia was walking on Borrowed time to help save her coven.

Because time is fluid for Lilia.

I realized this when I rewatched Lilia fall with a sudden, severity and noticed the angle of her head as she hit the ground.

And now Lilia reassuring Billy, ‘We’re cool, baby.’ takes on newer meaning because she forgave him, and she’s sparing him with the truth of her death. Her death, to the rest of the coven, is her sacrifice in the tower.

It’s not the fall caused by a temper tantrum.

And if my theory is true that meant that Rio bent the rules a little because, in the end, she will still get Lilia. Sort of.

For Lilia Calderu Time is an illusion.

Lilia can jump in any point in her life. From the beginning of her classes with her Maestra or any point of her 400 years of life. She can, still jump in time within her own personal time line to live her life or help her coven.

Her present selves won’t thank her future self, because of the memory gaps it will leave her, reeling and confused. Fully in control of her time jumping Lilia though would have fun with it.

Lilia will still die, she will still have that appointment with Death, but to quote one Clara Oswald, she can take that road back to Rio the long way ‘round.

[nervocat]

“Reverberations Left Behind” (cws: talk + depictions of war, major loss, blood + war descriptions, morbid(?) descriptions of death, major spoilers for Jiyans companion quest - wc: 850, angst/platonic/romantic, gn reader)

Jiyan and Rover had made it to the Knell Square, face to face with the illusions of the soldiers, who were facing the bell of said square. Jiyan looks at the silhouettes, a solemn look in his gold eyes.

“Are these all.. Tacet Discords?”

“Nonsense!” Jiyan says, a bit harshly as he looks at the silhouettes ahead, face contorted in thought. Rover looks over to Jiyan, inquisitive.

“What on earth are they doing?” they ask, looking to Jiyan for a reply. The generals fist clenches.

“They're reenacting our first lesson for new recruits,” Rovers eyebrows furrow, lips pulled downward in a frown.

“What's this lesson about?” Jiyan goes on to explain how in the Knell Square, before the new recruits are allowed on the battlefield, they must pay tribute to the fallen soldiers.

He confessed that even when he himself first did this, he didn't know the meaning or significance of this. He now knows, all too well.

“My teammates weren't the only ones who died in that battle that were dear to me,” Jiyan continues, Rover curious as to who this was. “Their name, it was..” he swallowed hard, looking up at the soldiers again. “It was [name].”

“[name]?” Rover parrots, still giving Jiyan their full attention.

“Yes..” he seemed deep in thought, reliving some memories. “They died in my arms, I saw the moment when the life left their eyes. I remember it all too well,” Jiyan looks over to Rover, still deep in thought.

The way your deep red blood coated his outfit, the blood making his shirt stick to his skin. It was an uncomfortable feeling, having the blood of someone so dear to you seep into your skin, but it was nothing compared to the loss he felt in that moment and onwards, knowing that you would die, even if he did everything he could in his power to help you.

“[name], listen to me, you will make it.. I promise!” desperation wove its way into Jiyans voice as his eyes glazed over, the sight of you all bloodied as your weapon lay on the ground was horrific to look at. The sounds of other weapons clashing with the attacks of the Tacet Discords filled what would have been silence. Silence — that sounded nice right about now.

All you did was smile at him. You went into this battle not expecting to come out alive. “Jiyan, I'm sorry, but you and I both know my wounds are too severe to cure, even for you,” he just shook his head, tears finally spilling over.

“[name], I..” he was cut off by a gentle squeeze to his arm. Jiyan looked you in the eyes again, the ones that had shined so bright, now dim as your life reached for its death.

“Go out there and fight for me and your teammates, we'll be cheering you on.”

That was all you had said to him before your life was so cruelly taken from you so early. Jiyan had hugged your body for a bit, feeling how the warmth slowly left your body. He soon went to fight for you and the others, just as you had asked of him in your final moments.

“Jiyan? The soldiers are moving..” Jiyan comes back to reality as Rover points out that, indeed, the silhouettes of the soldiers were now moving.

They walk towards a cliff, soon to disappear. Jiyan and Rover look at each other, and decide to bid farewell to them one last time, but the blood curdling screams of those who died followed them. It was daunting, really, the cruel reinactnent of that battle.

They had done it, they had defeated the Tacet Discord, and the soldiers were free after ten years more of fighting — you and his teammates were free, and a TD outbreak was prevented. Jiyan reached his hand out, a glowing gold orb landing in his hand before it disappeared. He wonders if that was you. Jiyan balled his fist up once more, looking back to Rover.

“Let's go now, shall we? Show these collected Reverberations to the lab for studying,” Rover looks over and nods to Jiyan, moving to leave this ominous place. Jiyan walked slower behind, looking around the area.

He was glad you and the others were no longer trapped here.

Jiyan had invited Rover to plant a seed of his flower he had the lab make, Emortia, and he watched as they took care to plant the seed after he told them the deep meaning behind these flowers, and why he had them made.

He now stood alone on that cliff, hair swaying in the wind with the Emortias. He looked to an area where a more separate group of flowers swayed. Jiyan knew which one represented his teammates, and you.

He walked over to them, careful not to step on the other flowers, and knelt down beside the small group of flowers. Jiyan sighs.

“You're free now, [name]. You can finally rest like you deserve to — I miss you.” Jiyan looks to the setting sun, wondering where you rested now. He hoped that his Emortia flower would be planted by yours.

[ ★ notes - this is definitely one of my favorite fics I've written ever omg.. like guys?? Anyways yeah Jiyans companion quest made me love him sm more (but abt made me cry) and I HAD to write smth for him.. should probably start working on my requests tho huh 💀💀 I was tempted to keep it going but I think ending it like that was pretty good. I'm also actually rlly surprised this wasn't 1.0k words lol maybe I could've done the talk between Rover and Jiyan more detailed but I'm very very happy with this fic hehe :33 ]

[thetarotwitch111]

What's your dark side?

When you understand better your darker aspects and take steps to balance them, you can enjoy fully their potential without falling into their traps. Each of these dark gifts offers you the opportunity to live the best life, aligned with who you truly are,but only if you approach them with the right perspective...

✨I hope this reading brings you some clarity and guidance. If it resonated with you, I’d love to hear about it!

✨ And if you’re looking for something more personal, I also do individual readings—just DM me anytime.

🌟TIP JAR🌟

Some of my energy works : PERSONAL READINGS | PENDULUM READINGS | CHAKRA BALANCE | RADIONIC TABLE

Now, let's go for your reading!

Close your eyes, concetrate, take this moment for yourself only and ask your guides and the universe to tell you in which pile is the message meant for you.

Cards from: The Magickal Botanical Oracle by Maxine Miller

💚 Pile 1:The Witch's Garden

Your Dark Side: You possess a unique ability to delve into the depths of life where most fear to tread. This dark side makes you a seeker of hidden truths and buried secrets. However, the darker aspects of this ability lie in your potential to become consumed by the shadows you explore. Your curiosity for the unknown can lead you into obsessive or compulsive behaviors, as you dig deeper into the mysteries that others would rather leave alone. There’s a danger in becoming too comfortable in these dark spaces, where the lines between reality and illusion can blur. This can manifest as an attraction to the morbid or the macabre, pulling you into thoughts or environments that are difficult to escape from.

Perks of having your dark side: Your deep understanding of the darker aspects of life allows you to see and appreciate the full spectrum of human experience. You can help others navigate their own darkness, providing a guiding light in times of despair. This makes you incredibly empathetic and resilient, able to face life’s challenges with a calm that others admire. Your willingness to confront the uncomfortable truths of existence gives you a wisdom that is rare and valuable.

Cautions: The danger with your dark side is in becoming too absorbed in it. Your fascination with the hidden and the obscure can isolate you from others, as they may not understand or share your interests. This can lead to feelings of loneliness or alienation. Additionally, your comfort with the darker aspects of life may attract negative energies or entities that feed off your interest in the macabre, leading to a draining of your emotional or spiritual vitality. There’s also a risk of becoming overly cynical or pessimistic, as constant exposure to life’s darker side can skew your perception of the world.

Witch’s advice: To maintain balance and protect yourself from these darker influences, work with moonstone to keep your emotions steady and your intuition sharp. Incorporate a bath ritual with lavender and rosemary to cleanse any negative energy you may pick up during your explorations. You can use a white candle (as it represent all colors) during meditation to honor and contain your shadow side, and ask your spiritual guides to balance your energy and remind you of the light (with the laws of universe). Regularly burn sage or palo santo to purify your space, ensuring that you are not overwhelmed by the energies you encounter.

💚 Pile 2: Belladonna

Your dark side: Your charm is a powerful tool, but it comes with a darker edge. You have the ability to manipulate others, bending their will to serve your own purposes, and this can lead you to have some behaviors and make some decisions that are ethically questionable, using deceit or seduction to get what you want. The darker aspects of your charm are tied to a potential for narcissism, where the focus on your own desires eclipses any concern for the well-being of others. You may find yourself using people as pawns in a game, not fully considering the impact of your actions on their lives. This can lead to a cycle of destructive relationships, where trust is eroded and connections are shallow.

Perks of having your dark side: Your charm gives you the ability to achieve goals that others might find impossible. You can navigate complex social dynamics with ease, making you a powerful force in both personal and professional settings. Your ability to influence others means you can often turn situations to your advantage, leading to success in areas where others might struggle. This dark side also gives you a strategic mind, allowing you to plan and execute with precision.

Cautions: The danger with Belladonna’s dark allure is the potential to lose touch with your authentic self. The constant use of charm and manipulation can create a façade that becomes difficult to maintain, leading to feelings of emptiness or dissatisfaction. There’s also the risk of alienating those around you as they begin to see through your manipulations. Over time, this can result in a lack of deep, meaningful connections, leaving you isolated despite your social success. Additionally, the power you wield can lead to an inflated ego, where you start to believe that you are invincible or above the rules that govern others.

Witch’s advice: To keep your darker tendencies in check, carry obsidian to ground yourself and maintain a connection to your true intentions. Brew a tea with mugwort to enhance your clarity and ensure that your actions are aligned with your higher self and to amplify your charm without falling into manipulation, indulge in a bath with white rose petals and jasmine—these will help you connect with your heart and maintain sincerity in your interactions. You can also light a red candle and ask for help to your spiritual guides (with the laws of universe) to focus your ambition, but also to be mindful of the impact of your actions on others and your own path. A lavender and camomille tea is always a good choice too.

💚 Pile 3: Thorn Apple

Your dark side: You are a natural risk-taker, unafraid to venture into the unknown or push boundaries that others fear to cross. This fearlessness is part of your dark side, but it also has a darker aspect, recklessness and your attraction to danger can lead you to make impulsive decisions without fully considering the consequences or others feelings. You might find yourself drawn to self-destructive behaviors, or seeking out adrenaline-fueled experiences that put you or others at risk. There’s a potential for addiction to the thrill, leading you down paths that are difficult to return from. This dark side can also manifest as a tendency to challenge authority or rules, not out of principle, but for the sheer thrill of defiance.

Perks of having your dark side: Your willingness to take risks gives you a unique advantage in life. You are able to achieve things that others would never attempt, simply because you’re not afraid to fail. This boldness allows you to live a life that is full and intense, rich with experiences that most people can only dream of. Your dark side also gives you the ability to inspire others, encouraging them to step out of their comfort zones and embrace life’s challenges.

Cautions: The flip side of your fearlessness is the potential for chaos. Your attraction to extremes can lead to instability in your life, where you constantly seek out new thrills without considering the long-term impact. This can strain relationships, as those around you may find it difficult to keep up with your pace or understand your need for intensity. There’s also a risk of burnout, as the constant push for more can exhaust your physical, emotional, and mental resources. Additionally, your tendency to defy rules and authority can create conflict and put you in situations where the stakes are dangerously high.

Witch’s advice: To protect yourself as you navigate these intense experiences, carry a black tourmaline as a shield against negative energies and to keep you grounded in reality. Cleanse your spirit regularly with a bath infused with hyssop. (This herb will purify your energy and remove any residue from your daring ventures). You can also light a purple candle for your guides to ask (with the laws of universe) for energies of transformation, transmutations and protection when embarking on new challenges, ensuring that you are guided and guarded. Burn myrrh or frankincense incense to clear your path and sharpen your focus, helping you maintain clarity and strength even when faced with the most extreme situations.

[cacoetheswriting]

celebrity skin. (part seven)

pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x popstar!fem!reader word count: 6.7k summary: due to an unexpected visit, you're forced to tackle a certain situation head on. maybe now you can get some answers from the rockstar that broke your heart — or maybe your family will just annoy you about it.

content warnings: 18+, minors dni: suggestive & mature themes, adult language, post-breakup emotional hurt / a little comfort, minor use of pet names, tiny bit of fluff, familial drama — if i missed anything in this chapter, pls let me know!

& psa: images used in the header don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also described vaguely in the story, only that she’s a little shorter than eddie.

celebrity skin. masterlist

There is an infamous estate in East Hampton that’s been key to many conversations between your family members.

Grey Gardens was four acres of oceanfront land. 

The prime location had been prone to controversy right from the very beginning, or more accurately, since 1901. Controversies involving the women that owned the estate. Women not so dissimilar to your own grandmother, such as Margaret Bagg Phillips who was challenged for ownership of the land after the passing of her husband — (his brother suspected that she cremated him so that an autopsy couldn’t be performed). 

More notably though, Grey Gardens had at one point been home to Edith Ewing Bouvier Beale, and her daughter, Little Edie. 

Your Nana would often use Big Edie’s martial fall out as an example to never trust a man’s intentions. She’d also use the Beale’s widely publicised story as a warning. People will judge you, especially if your name is already known to some.

Despite the gossip associated with Grey Gardens, the reason for its frequent mention at your family’s dinner table wasn’t because of the vast size of the property, its architectural style, or design. And it wasn’t the scandalous story, or the association with being a recluse. No. For your family, the name signalled an escape. A white flag, of sorts, to end the standoff between two or more people because the talks were going in circles. The mention of Grey Gardens was to allow for reflection since seeing someone else’s point of view, in the heat of the moment, was not easy.

A white flag you were now waving.

“Eddie came to see you?” Val asks in disbelief while she carefully sets a bowl of mashed potatoes down on its designated spot at the family dinner table.

“Grey Gardens,” you mutter, not interested in getting into this conversation.

Unfortunately, your younger sister ignores you, along with the meaning that your family has given to the East Hampton acres of land. She proceeds to press on the matter, rather indelicately, because she’s always been nosy when it comes to your celebrity skin — not out of jealousy, you knew that much, just morbid curiosity, as she’d always say. Normally you don’t mind it. Hers is the only attention you give into because she’s always been your number one fan. This whole situation with Eddie however, well, that you didn’t want to get into. It’s the reason you stayed hidden in your apartment for all those weeks following the breakup.

So you made a promise with yourself: no one has to know that the Corroded Coffin frontman showed up at your door the other night. And by no one, you meant your own family and close circle, since you already told Steve and Eddie’s undoubtedly gone to visit his sister. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, three days with no hitch. Saturday… Well, the tabloids had to go and ruin that day for you and put a hink in your plan to keep this situation underwraps. EDDIE MUNSON SPOTTED IN NEW YORK: the Rockstar plus the Big Apple, it can only mean one thing.

People aren’t stupid. They picked up on the hidden meaning immediately. Understood the illusion presented to them by second-rate journalists who were dreaming of writing about things that matter, but are instead stuck working on puff pieces about people five-times more famous than they’ll ever be. So the gossip train took off. Eddie Munson was in New York City to see you. This time, of course, that was true, but you hated that other people knew about it. Most importantly, you hated that your family knew.

“Did he say why he came?” Val is relentless.

Tension is building up your back, to your shoulder blades. You crack your neck. You’ve never been one to go against family, but you’re maybe about one question away from telling Val to fuck off. Jesus. The intention behind the thought disappears from your mind just as fast as it initially crept up. It would be redundant. She’d just call for mom, the peacemaker. 

And speaking of mom…

“Valentine, can you please gather your siblings? Dinner will be ready in five minutes and I’m pretty sure Jonah is knee-deep in Play-Doh, while Amelia will take about twenty to put down the phone.” 

She always walks into the room like she’s in a rush for something, despite never having anywhere to go outside of school pickups and grocery runs. Yet there’s an elegance there, thought by your Nana, and an aura of warmth and a certain poise that you’ve envied since you were a little girl. An aura that can’t be mimicked or copied. You’ve tried.

“Your sister is going to help me out here,” your mom adds before Val can argue, “The green beans need to be finished, and I need someone to check on the pie because I have to handle the steaks.”

You’re grateful for the distraction, following your mom into the kitchen. The sizzle coming from the oil is soothing, like white noise. You stand in the doorway for a moment, allowing yourself to close your eyes, listening to the hissing as you take in the surrounding smells. Solace. Although it’s brief because your mom is calling your name and she’s again in a rush, opening the oven quite harshly and telling you to look at the pie.

“Where’s dad?” You wonder while doing what she’s requested you to do. The pie is burned at the top, but you don’t tell her, taking it out instead and setting it aside to cool. The oven is off before she even gets a chance to ask what it looks like.

“He’ll be back soon,” she answers simply, “Went to pick up Caroline and your Nana.”

You nod and move onto finishing the green beans before your mom can implore you to do so. She starts whistling. The same tune she always does when cooking — your first number one song. It makes you smile. She’s always told you how proud she was, both of your parents did. Their beautiful girl, their second daughter, grew up to become bigger than the world. That’s plenty of reason for pride. You start to hum along.

For the next ten minutes, five longer than what your mom said dinner would take, you forget all about Eddie Munson showing up at your apartment door. 

-

The banging continues. Eddie's calling your name through the wood that’s separating your two bodies, desperate for your attention. It’s almost like a plea, but that would mean he’s remorseful of something, and if you know Eddie at all — which you think you do — he’s not the remorseful type, considering how often he fucks up.

With a trembling hand, you slide the chain onto the lock and slowly open the door, peeking at the rockstar from between the created gap. Eddie is quick to readjust his position, leaning forward against the frame, so that he can see you better in the dim light of your apartment.

“How did you get past the doorman?”

“I uh… I told him I was your boyfriend.”

You can’t help but scoff. His answer angers you. Enough to want to shut the door back in his face, which you’re about to do when Eddie places his hand between the crack, preventing you from doing anything.

“Just hear me out.”

“Please leave.”

“Sweetheart—”

“No,” you snap, “You… you don’t get to call me that.”

Eddie sighs while dropping his hand, though he doesn’t move much further and his persistence makes it hard for you to just leave him there, sulking in your hallway. 

Motherfucker. 

Despite the resentment you currently feel, and despite not really wanting to talk to him, you briefly close the door to unlatch the chain, then open it again before stepping to the side, allowing him to enter the confines of your apartment because a) you’re an idiot, and b) you’re a stupid fucking idiot.

The rockstar lingers for a moment, glancing between you and the inside of your home, and you think he must be unsure about your sudden change of heart. Frankly, you’re unsure too since you did your best to get over him — a lot of that effort to no avail. You’re mainly unsure though, ‘cause once he steps through the threshold, it will be a lot harder to kick him out.

“Do you want something to drink?” You ask, breaking the rather heavy silence, but you don’t wait for him to answer. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get us some water.”

Eddie nods at your words, slowly, and you leave him there, lingering by the open door before he finally takes that step forward. You disappear into the kitchen under the pretext of hydration, when you’re alone, however, instead of reaching for two glasses, you lean against your fridge as the tears breach through the corners of your eyes. The stone-like facade you put up just moments prior has disappeared the second you allowed yourself to breathe.

Every inch of you is against indulging the Corroded Coffin frontman in whatever conversation he hopes to have with you, hence why you shut the door in his face in the first place. He broke you, a sentence you repeated to yourself like a mantra while spending hours on end in bed instead of living your luxurious life. You’re dreaming of Grey Gardens. The escape that it provides. The white flag you wish to wave in means of avoidance because avoidance is always easier than working through feelings, especially since you’ve been down this road before with Eddie and he just doesn’t seem to change.

Then there’s that voice of reason, closely resembling your mom, telling you that Eddie did come to New York and of all people, he chose to see you. Despite everything that’s happened, despite knowing he most likely wouldn’t be greeted kindly, he still came to see you. That’s gotta count for something, right?

Wrong, considering the timing of his arrival is shortly after your not-so-fake date with one of his closest friends as so carefully planned by Max; who was counting on this very reaction from her brother. She prepared you for it, so you knew damn well that whatever conversation you’re about to have would be far from productive, since, you suspect, this is the reason he’s in the Big Apple to begin with.

And while you’re in the kitchen trying to regain control of your nerves, Eddie is also going crazy.

He didn’t really come here with a clear mission. Honestly, calling Marianne to charter a jet last minute was a pure knee jerk reaction after reading that spread on you and his so called friend, Steve. A night out on the town, featuring his best girl and someone he thought was a best friend. The photo of the two of you was cosy, too close for comfort and too much for poor ol’ Eddie. He wondered how the two of you met. He wondered what you talked about on this date. Did either of you mention his name? 

Then the questions took a turn for slightly more perverse considering your history. 

Did you do more than just hold hands, as depicted in the photo? He wondered if you, as the tens of girls in Hawkins, also thought Harrington was a good kisser. Was he better than Eddie? Did you enjoy kissing him? Fuck— Jealousy, jealousy, jealousy. The feeling made him sick. 

That’s when Eddie knew, despite all perceived consequences, he needed to see you.

Your apartment was exactly like he imagined it to be. Big and bright. Eclectic, but with classy furniture that unsurprisingly looked more expensive than anything he’s ever owned. It was carefully arranged to maximise the space and make it look more inviting. 

There was a display of various awards on top of the marble fireplace, most notably a Grammy. Eddie smiles at the statue, then continues to glance around your living room. A gallery wall catches his attention, so he stops his small, self-guided tour in front of it. The photos vary from your magazine covers, to childhood memories. In the middle, there’s a picture of your family and although Eddie’s never met anyone aside from your evil grandmother, from your stories, he knows exactly who everyone is — your parents, Alicia and Brad, with their four daughters, Caroline, Valentine, Amelia, and you, plus the youngest boy, Jonah — and he can’t help but wonder if you told them anything about him. 

He suspects the answer is yes, since why else would you disappear for a few months to Los Angeles, only to come back heartbroken. So the brunette rockstar hates himself even more for putting you in that situation in the first place. He wishes more than anything that he could explain, but the grisly threats made by the very person that’s sitting right in the middle of the family picture, ring in his ears.

That’s how you find him. Staring blankly at the photo frames ahead.

-

Everyone settles at the table, taking their assigned seats, like it’s always been. Mom on one end of the wooden piece of furniture, your dad on the other. The sides see your Nana sitting in between you and your older sister Caroline who’s partner, Jackie, usually takes today’s empty spot. Across sits Valentine, Amelia, and little boy Jonah, who’s always closest to your mom, otherwise he throws a fit.

Nana initiates prayer. Your family has never been overly religious, if at all, but you do believe in thanking whatever higher power may exist for the blessings you’ve each encountered in life: your parents meeting each other when they did and starting the beautiful family your Nana is constantly praying for, Caroline for graduating at the top of her class in medical school and most recently starting her surgical residency at John Hopkins Hospital, Val for her spot at NYU and Amelia for her spot at the top of the cheer pyramid (a sure scholarship ride, when the time comes), and lastly you, for everything that made you. Jonah is the only one that has no idea what’s going on. He’s just happy to see food. 

The potatoes are passed clockwise. That’s when the chaos slowly begins to unfold. 

“Guess who came to see our star,” Val teases. She means no harm, but you just have this feeling that there’s no way this could end well.

“Who?” Caroline asks, focused more on plating her dinner than on actually getting an answer. She’s just being polite, as always. Unwilling to leave her sister hanging.

“A certain dark-haired rockstar.”

“Val—”

But your attempt at a protest is quickly interrupted.

“Oh for the love of everything good,” your Nana exhales rather loudly, “What does that boy want with you now? I thought you left that fiasco behind in Los Angeles, where it belongs.”

“It’s not like I invited him over,” you state, “He just… appeared.” Not entirely a lie because they don’t have to know that the last date you were seen on was carefully orchestrated to get under the rockstar's skin, which is why he came.

“I for one like the thought of you and that boy together,” your mom says, knife cutting into her piece of steak, “There’s something very kind about his face, and you know what I always say about kindness.”

“At the end of the day, that’s all that really matters when it comes to love,” you chime in unison with each of your sisters.

“Exactly.”

“This isn’t about love.” The tone of your Nana’s voice is urging close to displeasement. You look at her, but she’s focused on her plate. If you knew any better, you’d say she was avoiding your gaze. Almost as if she was hiding something.

But you quickly brush the thought away before it can grow into something more. Whatever her stance on the rockstar, and she’s made it very clear on numerous occasions that she wasn’t Eddie’s biggest fan, your Nana was often a lot of talk and little follow through. She didn’t like to get her hands dirty, unless there was a clear benefit to her, or someone in the family. And there was no winning for anyone when it came to the whole situation with Eddie.

“Eddie’s cute,” Amelia says sweetly, taking a forkful of green beans into her mouth. “Like a sexy sort of cute. That bad boy look is definitely working for him.”

“I don’t see it.” Caroline shrugs.

“That’s ‘cause you’re into chicks, not dicks.” Val points out.

“Valentine.” Your dad’s first words around the dinner table are always spoken to reprimand someone else. A man of a few expressions, is what you often described him as. Holly thought it was insanely hot which always grossed you out.

Val clears her throat, understanding that she’s crossed a line with that rather cheeky comment, but she doesn’t apologise. Instead she continues with questions to the initial subject she raised — Eddie coming to see you.

“Did you let him in?” She probes, “Did you guys talk?”

-

Eddie does turn his head as soon as you walk back into the room, sensing your presence like he usually does. He tries to smile, though his mouth refuses cooperation with his brain and instead pursues his lips into a lopsided line, somewhat reminiscent of what he was trying to achieve, but not quite. Not really.

Avoiding more eye contact than absolutely necessary, you place the two glasses of water on the coffee table before standing on the other side of it. Ensuring ample space between you and the Corroded Coffin frontman. A necessary precaution considering how fast you tend to give into his mahogany-coloured eyes.

“Talk.”

It’s simple. Right now, that’s all you can muster.

Eddie clears his throat. Right now, that’s all he can muster.

In the few minutes of rather unbearable silence that follow, you’re forced to come to terms with the fact that Grey Gardens is most definitely not an option. Eddie is actually here, in your living room, for one reason or another, which is another reminder of how the two of you ended up like this in the first place: “I think we made a mistake,” he says a little too bluntly. “I-I don’t think we should have labelled this so soon, and ehm… This is nothing on you, sweetheart. I’m just not the relationship type.”

“Eddie, talk.” You say with a little more conviction. “Because you begged me for a chance to hear you out just mere minutes ago, and now you’re as silent as the dead, so I’m a little confused and getting even more peeved off.”

“Okay,” he breathes finally, “Okay, uhm.”

Running a hand through his crazy locks, Eddie glances briefly at the golden award on your chimney, before settling his gaze on you.

“I-I saw the pictures of you and Steve.” A statement that surprisingly isn’t fueled by anger, or the jealousy he was for sure feeling, but rather by a sadness that he only blamed himself for.

“Right…”

“How did you two meet?”

“At Saks,” you answer, intentionally leaving out the young redhead that was also present, “We bumped into each other and kind of hit it off.”

“Did he say he knew me?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking him all those questions, Eddie? I’ve got nothing to explain to you since we’re no longer together, you made that very clear,” you state. “If it bothers you so much that I was seen out with Steve, then ask the guy that’s supposedly your friend.”

There’s a twinge of guilt that oozes through your veins because if it wasn’t for your agreement to Max’s little plan, you wouldn’t have to witness Eddie’s desperation. And even though you try to remind yourself how hurting the brunette man back is exactly why you agreed to the stupid date in the first place, seeing Eddie’s melancholy expression makes you think it wasn’t really worth it.

“Look, I-I—” You’re about to give in, explain the situation in hopes he’d simply let it go and leave you be. Leave you to finally move on since, at the end of the day, that’s what you really wanted, no, needed to do. 

The phone rings. Interrupting your train of thought along with the conversation. When you answer and it’s Steve, calling to check in since you never called him back, like you promised you would, the guilt bubble bursts and bleeds.

“Eddie’s here,” you simply state into the receiver, your back now to the Corroded Coffin frontman as he continues to stare at your frame. 

“Oh,” Steve sighs, “Do you need me to come over? Diffuse the situation?”

Even though Harrington can’t see you, you shake your head. “No, that’s okay. I’m okay,” you affirm and for the first time that night, smile. Albeit slightly. “Thank you anyway, and ehm, I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Deal.”

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight, darlin’.”

When you shift in your spot to once again look at Eddie, his expression is no longer one of dejection. Instead it’s replaced by the look you knew you were bound to be at the receiving end of at some point during this night — resentment.

“So you call each other goodnight after just one date, huh?”

Bitter, the tone of his voice. Like a child at a playground who was forced to share his favourite toy. It causes you to roll your eyes ‘cause you’re once again reminded of the person everyone warned you Eddie is: a self-serving asshole. And to say you weren’t expecting a drop of the broken facade at some point would be a lie. 

“It’s really nothing to you,” you state back, crossing your arms under your bust, no longer wanting to explain how this all came about. “Now, if all you came here for is to question me about my date, I guess you can leave ‘cause I’ve got nothing else to tell you, Eddie. It’s frankly none of your business and I once again remind, that you made sure of that.”

Eddie scoffs, but doesn’t say anything else, not even a stupid goodbye, or see you around. He simply brushes past you and slams the front door shut. Leaving you all alone with your thoughts, yet again.

The sudden silence is overbearing.

You think of Grey Gardens. Inside, a dust-covered grand piano. Untouched and unplayed for many years. You think of the songs that never made it past the first key, wasted because of the hosts decision to lock all doors. Self-preservation. Recluse, like Val recently called you.

And a recluse is the last thing you want to be again.

-

Jonah is making a mess. He’s playing with his dinner, potatoes everywhere but the places they’re supposed to be. Your mom is trying to calm him down. Unfortunately the further she bargains for peace, the more excited he gets. He’s laughing now. Clearly enjoying himself, along with the attention he’s getting.

Mom’s voice is calm while she repeats his name. Amelia can be heard from the kitchen, screeching that your brother got his dinner all over her new jeans and the stain won’t come out. Caroline is shouting back from her seat, giving your youngest sister cleaning tips she’s picked up at the hospital. Your Nana and Val have gotten into an argument over the parenting style you were all raised with (Valentine protecting your mom, while your Nana remains ever the scrutinizer).

You’re grateful that for a few minutes, everyone is focused on your brother.

Then Jonah starts crying. It’s gotten too loud for his tiny ears. He’s no longer enjoying the minor disruption he’s caused, he just doesn’t know how to apologise for it, so he opts to let the floodgates open. Watching him, you think how lucky it must be to just cry when things get tough. How freeing it must be to not keep shit in until it gets too much.

When his screams get louder, your mom glances at your dad, who understands without a single spoken word that he can no longer just observe. So your dad stands. He walks around the table until he’s by Jonah’s chair, lifting him up in one swift movement.

“It’s alright, my man.”

With that, they’re gone. The cries soon fade. When Amelia sits back down, a wet patch on her jeans, it’s quiet around the table again. Your mom asks for the empty plates, a smile on her face as if the last ten minutes didn’t just flutter her completely. One by one they’re passed to her without a word. When she stands, Caroline follows by picking up the bowls with leftover mash and beans.

“So are you gonna see him again?” Amelia asks. Continuing the previous topic because if she’s engaged in conversation, then mom won’t ask for her help.

“Who?”

“Eddie, you dingus.”

You grimace. “I don’t know.”

That apparently was not the right answer because your Nana jumps back in with nothing but judgement in her tone of voice.

“Honey, do you really want to put yourself through more heartbreak?” She queries, “Because I’ve told you before that boys like that don’t change their ways.”

“Well, I wouldn’t really know if they change or not, since I wasn’t exactly privy to the circumstances surrounding the demise of my and Eddie’s relationship in the first place.” You don’t mean to snap, but that’s exactly what happens. “Now, does the concept of Grey Gardens not apply anymore, because if so, I must’ve missed that family meeting.”

You walk away from the table next. Sick of answering questions. Sick of this conversation. Sure, this was your family, but there were things you wanted to keep private. Especially things relating to Eddie since you were still only trying to figure everything out yourself. 

The conversation with Eddie didn’t amount to much. Without allowing yourself to second guess the feeling in your gut, you rushed after the rockstar the night he walked out of your apartment. There was a lot going through your mind, but one thing was a little more clear, he wasn’t going to win. Eddie Munson was not going to be the one to play victim in this situation since he’s the person that’s caused this crazy domino effect. He won’t turn you into a fucking recluse again.

Unfortunately he’s gone by the time you make it to the lobby. You don’t get a chance to confront him then and you haven’t heard from him since. You’re not even sure if he’s still in New York — a feeling creeping through you screams that he is, but you can’t be sure.

The line rings once, twice. Then a jovial voice picks up.

“Mayfield residence.”

You clear your throat. “Hey, Max, it’s uh… it’s me.”

“My favourite popstar,” Red cheers, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Is Eddie there? Or do you maybe know what hotel he’s staying at?”

When Max doesn’t immediately answer, you think you fucked up by calling. Dumb idea, dumb idea, dumb, dumb, dumb. Sucking your bottom lip in between your teeth, you proceed to chew on it nervously, about to tell her to forget you asked, forget you called. But then a voice flows through the receiver and it doesn’t belong to Max.

“Heard you’re looking for me, sweetheart.”

Eddie.

“Have you ever been to Coney Island?”

-

The Wonder Wheel was an attraction to hundreds, if not thousands, locals and tourists. A glistening staple of the peninsular neighbourhood. You could never hope to see it during the day anymore. Not since your fame skyrocketed, now on par with the amusement park. At night however, when the sun went down and the workers finished their shifts, well, that was a different story.

The watch strapped to your wrist displayed two in the morning as you walked towards the metal gate with a rather hesitant Eddie by your side. He’s unsure why you called, unsure of why you invited him out here after making it pretty clear the other night that you didn’t want to talk to him. What changed?

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Tony was the security guard, about four years shy of retirement. Working the Wheel grounds since he was a kid, following his dad who’d done the job before. A true New York family affair. You befriended him a long time ago now. 

“I thought I’d seen the last of you, kid.”

“Back to my roots now. It’s nice to hear I’ve been missed,” you say as Tony opens the gate for you without question. 

“One hour,” the older man states, like he’s done many times before, only briefly glancing back at the rockstar that’s accompanying you. Thankfully, he chooses not to comment.

“One hour,” you repeat with a nod and a smile.

Underneath the Wonder Wheel is where you hope to find some peace in this whole situation. Eddie’s still hesitant, and a little confused, especially when you lay flat on your back on the dirty ground to stare upon the metalworks of the world famous attraction. He doesn’t question you though, just accepts that to continue any sort of conversation, he’s going to have to join you.

There’s a half-a-beat of silence. Just the wind, the water, and some crickets. You exhale slowly, eyes closed momentarily because this was one of your safe spaces and now you might’ve ruined it by bringing your ex.

A sigh escapes your lips.

“Eddie, why did you really come to New York?” You ask without looking at him.

When the rockstar doesn’t immediately answer, a glimmer of hope for what you two lost, oozes through you. It’s foolish, yes, you know that. Your Nana would even call you stupid for holding onto something — someone — that has hurt you repeatedly. Matter of fact, she damn nearly has earlier this evening. But it’s Eddie, you tell yourself. He’s charming, but not in a try-hard way. The charm comes naturally to him. He’s funny. He’s wicked smart. And underneath that cold-ish exterior, he’s unbelievably kind (as your mom suspected). You learned this about him. Which is why it hurt so much when he ended things so casually. It seemed uncharacteristic to the Eddie Munson you’ve gotten to know, and possibly even love.

He seemingly came to ask about your date with Steve, as his little sister predicted he would. Just like she planned for. At first, you thought that too ‘cause what other reason would there be to bring him all the way out here after months of no contact. What other reason, except for just seeing you.

“I think I told you once that wherever I go, solo or with the band, I never really set foot outside of whatever hotel they have me staying in, or whatever studio I have scheduled interviews and press in, venture from whatever show I have.”

“Your exact words were: they keep me prisoner,” you say through a smile.

Eddie laughs briefly at the memory. “Well, sweetheart, it’s true. Fame overall in a way is like a prison. Do you ever feel that way?”

“That’s one way to not answer my question,” you tease, nudging his side slightly. “But I guess, yeah. Can’t go anywhere without Hank out of fear some randomer will come up to me with ill intentions, or I’ll end up in the papers again and my ex-whatever will fly across the country to confront me about it.”

You look at him then, a smile circling your lips. Eddie does the same. His brown eyes scan your own for a moment, contemplating the comment you just made.

“We kinda get what we signed up for though, no?” You add. “Seems ungrateful to complain.”

Eddie nods. He licks his lips before looking back up at the sky above, spotty between the metal of the wheel, but beautiful nonetheless. Different from Los Angeles. Different from Hawkins. Reminiscent of the people he’s met here. Reminiscent of you which makes it perhaps the most perfect night sky he’s ever seen.

“I came ‘cause I wanted to see you.”

He exhales.

“When everything went down… I thought I was doing the right thing, sweetheart. I thought I was protecting you from the hell I know dating me can become,” Eddie explains, “I know that’s not an excuse and if it was, it’d be a fucking lame one, but people that are close to me get hurt. That’s just the honest truth.”

“People like Chrissy Cunningham.”

Eddie’s head snaps back in your direction. He’s shocked, that’s for sure. How do you know that name? Did Steve tell you? Surely not without giving Eddie a heads up first. That’s the least Harrington could do after going on a very public date with his ex-girlfriend.

Quick to notice his surprise at the mention of Chrissy’s name, you realise the only way to get the truth, is to be honest yourself.

“Eddie, there’s something you should know about my first run-in with Steve.”

“Did he tell you about Chrissy?” The question is quiet, almost as if the rockstar is afraid to ask it. He’s clearly nervous and it goes well beyond you just knowing about Chrissy.

“Max told me.”

“What?”

You sigh, glancing back up at the metal and sky above.

“She was with Steve that day at Saks. We, uh, we didn’t really talk then. We didn’t even introduce ourselves ‘cause I was with Val who was trying on dresses for this event,” you tell him, then quickly look at him again.

“Max left a note with Hank. It was her address, she wanted to meet me.”

“You met with my sister? I was just with her. Why didn’t she tell me that?”

“I guess maybe she wanted me to be the one to tell you, I don’t know.” You shrug before continuing, “Eddie, she told me how you were seemingly crazy about me, so to her, it didn’t make sense that you suddenly weren’t. All she really wanted was to get your attention, get you to talk to her at least.” 

You pause. “Don’t be mad at her please.”

“Why would I be mad at her?”

“Because she’s the one who organised that date with Steve,” you answer. “It was fake, Eds. All for show, to get under your skin.”

He stares at you. Blinking as the information settles. Betrayal isn’t exactly the word he’d use to describe what he was now feeling. Lord knows he deserved it ‘cause there’s no denying he’d been acting like a complete prick towards everyone around him, including little Red who he’s supposed to always be honest with.

So the date was fake. That gave Eddie some solace. You weren’t really going to start dating one of his closest friends, even if the friend in question is calling you goodnight after said fake date. Then again, that’s just Steve the King Harrington, always the gentleman.

One thing remained unanswered, however. How much do you know of Chrissy?

“I’m not mad,” Eddie says eventually. “It actually makes a lot more sense now. Steve’s a good guy.”

“Not the type of guy to go out with his friends' ex,” you tease lightly.

The brunette smirks. “Still a dickhead.”

That makes you laugh. And as the sound settles, a sound Eddie would only describe as angelic, it makes the brunette rockstar smile a little wider. He didn’t think he’d ever be so lucky to hear your laughter again. He especially didn’t think he'd be the one to make you spur the emotion, not after what he’s done and how he’s treated you. But here the two of you are. Your laughter has faded, but the smile on your face remains.

“Well, I’m glad you’re not mad I went on a date with that dickhead,” you say honestly.

“Tsk. I’m not mad at Red,” he clarifies with a smug smile, “Never said anything about you, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes. “May I remind you that you have lost all right to be mad at me for seeing other people when you’re the one that ended things?”

It’s meant to come off lighthearted, but you can’t hide the hurt behind your words. There’s a pain there. One that you’ve forgotten about for the last twenty-or-so minutes because things are easy with Eddie. They align. The imperfect dots that represent your life are pulled together by an invisible string when the rockstar’s around. He somehow manages to make you feel normal and you live to experience a level of normalcy. Even if he hurt you. Twice.

“Tell me about Chrissy,” you change the subject. Steer your thoughts in a different direction.

Eddie avoids eye contact. He lifts one of his arms, flicking the piece of metal and listening to it echo in the night. A lame effort to buy some time before answering you because now that his initial fear of someone else telling you about Chrissy has been squashed by your not-so-simple request, he needs to figure out a way to avoid answering. The threat your grandmother has made at that godforsaken party remains fresh in the rockstars mind: “And Eddie,” she continues, “I wouldn’t tell her about this conversation, and I also wouldn’t be so brave to tell her about Chrissy yourself, because with a snap of my finger, the whole world will know. Then you gotta ask yourself, what’s more important? Your happiness, her happiness, or the careers you both worked extremely hard for.”

He swallows his breath before glancing back at you once again.

“There’s nothing to say.”

It’s simple. Can be perceived as vague ‘cause someone is avoiding the answer, but Eddie hopes you’ll just take it as him not wanting to talk about an ex-girlfriend. Not that Chrissy was his ex, but you didn’t really know that.

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing at all,” he lies.

-

There are clear moments that define a person's life and they’re not as basic as one would believe: first words, steps, tantrums, day of school, first friends, first fallouts, fight, crush, kiss, first anything — the list goes on, and on, and on. No. These definitive moments are a lot more hazy. Often remain unclear until you find yourself in therapy, spewing your feelings to someone who’s paid to listen, or when you’re black-out drunk and what’s bothering you deep inside is now between you and some stranger you just met in a nightclub bathroom.

Your list of moments is short and yet, somehow, it features Eddie’s name multiple times. In any other reality, that would be almost poetic. As if some higher power considered the two of you to be bound together. In this reality however, it was almost cruel. You had built a life bigger than you ever dreamed possible, and yet your existence is defined by the rockstar. 

Almost cruel.

“There’s a place in the Hamptons. Grey Gardens it’s called. I like to walk by it whenever I’m in the area, which in recent years obviously isn’t often, but still… There’s a certain solace about the property and despite its rather barmy history, my family uses Grey Gardens as a way to move past certain topics without a larger fight.”

The sand beneath you is coarse yet soft at the same time. You run your fingers through it, feeling every individual granule, while your gaze is fixated on the dark waters ahead. Eddie watches you. His arm is pressed against yours. He’s got no idea what you’re talking about, but he’s hooked on every word. As always.

“When you showed up at my door the other night, Grey Gardens is what I thought of,” you admit, “Truth be told, as angry as I was at you for breaking up with me like that, when I saw you, the last thing I wanted was any sort of confrontation.”

“I didn’t come here to argue,” Eddie clarifies.

“I know, Eds.”

There’s a brief moment of silence during which you wrap your arms around your knees and tilt your head to look at him, offering the rockstar a small smile.

“I believe you came ‘cause you regret your decision.”

Eddie looks away, bottom lip now between his teeth. He does so because you’re right, but unfortunately he can’t admit that out loud. He can’t say anything that’s on his mind because he’s aware of the wider implications to both of your careers.

“So, what happens now?” The rockstar asks, only slightly afraid of the answer.

thank you for reading! really appreciate the endless & continuous support!

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& tagging some cool ppl that expressed interest: @eviethetheatrefreak , @thirddeadlysin , @haylaansmi , @nope-thanks , @tlclick73 , @vintagehellfire , @ashlynnkennedy , @avalon-wolf , @sidthedollface2 , @astheni-a , @bebe07011 , @aysheashea , @papillonoirsworld , @vol2eddie, @spideyanakin-interacts , @rogers-sweatbands , @mimsie95 , @mmunson86

[gretavanlace]

Welcome To Hell

Jake Kiszka x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: graphic sexual content, angst, degradation, praise, impact play and illusions to impact play, unprotected sex, language, dirty talk, oral sex, alcohol consumption, etc.

This one spun outta control like I wrote it on black ice. My apologies for length and shitty editing in advance xoxo

Jake hates a scene. Loathes raised voices that might demand the hushed attention of a room. Despises eyes hungrily devouring, unblinking, staring, consuming. The morbid curiosity of it all is abhorrent.

What’s going on here? Those eyes ponder, raking over the situation in devilish glee. It’s human nature, he knows, like when you struggle to look away from something gruesome, but he doesn’t have to like it.

Unless he is strutting his way across a stage, soaking in the anguished, desperate need and admiration of those who buy a ticket to take the ride, he doesn’t want it.

Wrapped in an embellished suit and spilling his soul into the universe from behind a sword made of frets and strings - that is the only time his stoic nature allows him to step into the light when he so often yearns for the shadows.

Jacob is a libertine of the finest sort, but only once the curtain has dropped. Or, with you wearing the marks of his teeth, legs spread wide and inviting, beneath him.

You know of this particular aversion, this detest of observation. Of course you do. You know it now, and you knew it last night. You just hadn’t been able to find the will to give a damn.

So, rather than taking a few deep breaths to center yourself and maybe making the switch to water, you had fumed, allowing frustrated thoughts to stoke the bonfire of anger within you - and you drank. And drank. And drank. Ordering rum and coke after rum and coke until you could feel the bartender clocking you carefully, attempting to decide if he’d overserved you. He had. He most definitely had.

As is so often the case with angry drunks, it suddenly seemed such an ideal time to pick a fight. A good time to pitch your voice loud enough to bring the conversation at your table, in a tucked away corner of the bar, to a grinding halt.

A great time to accuse him of wanting to fuck the bubbly little raven-locked beauty, with the tiny skirt and anything but tiny tits, that had been fluttering around him at the pool table. A sex dripping hummingbird flitting about in his personal space, while he donned a soft, welcoming smile.

A wonderful time to invite him to go fuck himself as you stormed through the crowd dramatically.

A fantastic time to rage against the situation concocted within your inebriated haze, complete with sloppy tears and dramatic overreactions, until Danny had finally wrangled you into an Uber…riding along beside you while you dozed, head heavy on his shoulder. Exhausted from your drunken tantrum.

When you woke this morning, you did so with no memory of how you had ended up in bed, or who had removed the complicated, strappy heels from your feet. Or who, like some great god of mercy, had left the tall glass of water waiting on your bedside table. But you had your suspicions, and they were paired with small flashes of memory that proved you were correct. Daniel. Who else?

Another elusive bit of information was when Jake had finally made it home. You’d found him, splayed across the couch, hair tangled against a throw pillow, boots kicked off, but otherwise fully dressed. He was home, but you were unsure of how long that had been so. He might have collapsed onto the cushions five minutes after Danny tucked you in, or he might have stumbled in with the sun, cock still warm from her mouth.

Though, without the alcohol clouding your judgment, the very idea seemed ridiculous. Jake, with his sleepy eyes and gentle heart could never, and would never, even if he could.

He’d rolled off the sofa while you quietly rummaged around in the fridge, yanking out the ingredients you’d need to create a ‘terribly sorry for being an embarrassing mess last night’ BLT…a peace offering stacked high with peppered bacon and remorse.

When he found you once more, he was showered and looking no worse for wear. He looked so softly domestic in his hard worn jeans and long sleeved T, and you had longed to make amends, but he declined your breakfast of apologies. Even waving off the steaming mug of coffee you held out to him, while muttering something about the studio.

Never one to withhold affection in twisted punishment, he had kissed your forehead and strode out the door, assuring you he’d call if things began to look as though they might run late.

But his irritation with you was evident. Tangible in a way that sent a sharp pang of guilt flashing through your heart. He hadn’t forgotten, and he hadn’t yet forgiven.

You’d spent the rest of the morning ambling through the market. Piling your basket high with carefully selected root vegetables. Bags stuffed full to their brims with parsnips, turnips, and sweet potatoes. Onions, carrots and fennel, nestled in beside the broth and spices that would soon create the base for Jake’s favorite stew.

Veggies, lovingly sliced and diced, were rolling lazily this way and that, dancing in a slow simmer, when the first spits of rain began to pebble at the kitchen windows…

And now, here you sit, waiting patiently at the bottom of the stairs, legs tucked to the side and hidden beneath the hem of his favorite outfit. A worn and tattered, thrifted sweatshirt, at least three sizes too large, displaying the name of a university neither of you have ever heard of.

Inexplicably drawn to it at a flea market the two of you had stumbled upon, you plunked down a five dollar bill and immediately made it yours.

That same night, he’d watched you hack away at the sleeves with kitchen scissors, then hem the jagged edges with a needle and thread, tongue clenched between your teeth in concentration. And as he watched, he sank even deeper into the pool of his love for you.

That unskilled tailoring had resulted in sleeves that were uneven, but no longer swallowed your hands up. You wear that stupid sweatshirt around the house as a dress constantly, hair a mess atop your head in a bun, legs bare, and he doubts he could love it more if he tried.

You don’t know a thing about his little love affair with this particular article of clothing. Sometimes he says nothing at all when words threaten to fail, which is so very often the case between his heart and the tiny things that make you, you.

He finds you there, biding your time until he slips back into your orbit…waiting for his return with hopeful eyes glittering with love. That love softens his resolve and he feels the annoyance that has tried his patience all day, lessening.

“Hi.” You sound quiet, your one-worded greeting weighed down with contrition.

“Hi.” He takes his time leaning his guitar case against the door jamb, meticulous in its placement to be sure it won’t shift and hit the floor, and then adds a somber, “Something smells good.” as he pulls off his water sodden boots.

“I made stew.” You’re avoiding his eyes now that you can feel his energy. “Your favorite.”

“S’good weather for it.” He nods, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Chilly.”

You want to rise to your feet, to close the gap of space between the two of you. It feels cavernous. But, you prove rooted in place with the uncomfortability of it all. Are you actually discussing the weather? Like strangers on a train?

At last, you gather your bearings and stand, no longer a deer frozen in the headlights of his disappointment. “Jake…”

“Let’s just forget about it, alright?” He turns away, though you’ve reached for him. “Maybe it was a little much. It’s understandable that you’d be jealous, she was pretty. Beautiful, really.”

He’s said it to be cruel, to be hurtful, and the low blow has successfully landed, but you pretend it hasn’t. On with the show. He won’t remember she ever existed to begin with by the end of the night.

“But you’re still upset, baby…” you breathe the words gently and nuzzle your nose along his jawline. “You’re still angry with me, underneath it all. I can feel it.”

Relaxing his stance in your arms he huffs a tiny sigh. “I just— I don’t know why you have to—“

Your teeth graze over the delicate scar that lives just below his cheekbone. The spot that never fails to render his heart soft and his cock hard. “Why I have to what, Jake? Misbehave?”

A smoky ‘fuck’ slips of his lips when your fingers curl into the waist of his pants, tugging the linen with just enough force to remind him of where your fingers are.

“You should make me behave.” You kiss your way along until you find his mouth, licking into it with a quiet and obscene hum.

“I was mouthy and so mean,” your palm slides across his warm, soft stomach, fingers inching further downward just to hear the breath in his lungs catch. “and you’re always so good to me, Jake. So sweet. I don’t deserve it.”

Deeply perturbed though he may be with you, his love runs deeper still, “you do deserve it, sweetheart. Even when you’re drunk and terrible, you’re still my favorite girl.”

The pad of his thumb trails across your bottom lip, string-worn callous catching the velvet skin that scrubs and masks keep silken. “Careful with my lips, Jakey,” You lightly scratch against the sparse, downy hair that trails his navel. “I work so hard to keep them soft for your pretty cock.”

His hand runs up the nape of your neck and, with his fingers wrapped around the base of your bun, he snaps your head back with a deft flick of his wrist. The searing sting makes you hiss through your teeth and he calls back with a groan through his own clenched bite. “I didn’t ask for your smart mouth. You’re in trouble and I think a bit of respect would be a wise decision on your part, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” You arch forward, longing to press yourself against the sturdy warmth of his body.

Rather than allow it, he loosens his hold on you and steps back, studying your flushed face as though he’s never laid eyes on you before. As though he’s heard tell of what you’re capable of, and is deciding whether or not it might be worth his time to fuck the brat out of you.

“You want to be punished?” He walks his fingers down the outside of your thigh, barely making contact with the trembling muscle you’d give anything to feel him bury his grip into. To watch him spread you open wide and claim his prize.

You nod, cock drunk on him already, though you’ve yet to see it, touch it, worship it.

He tilts his head, as if weighing the possibilities “What if I take you outside, hmm? March you to the gallows?” His touch remains far too light, too gentle. “Make you pick a switch…put you over my knee right there on the front porch, show the whole neighborhood what a nasty fucking handful you are.”

“Whatever you want, Jake.” And you mean it. You probably shouldn’t, but you do. God help you, you mean it.

“Call me Jake one more time and I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.” He warns, pressing a finger to your lips. He doesn’t want a response. Watching you play by the rules for once will do just fine for him, thank you.

In a breath, his hand is warm between your thighs, fingers toying with you, taunting, teasing, withholding. “Upstairs. Now.” His demand comes gently, but it leaves no room for discussion all the same. “Everything off. I’ll be up when I feel like it.”

~

You wait without patience, but he isn’t in the room to scold you for fidgeting this way and that, nor is he close enough to hear your tiny huffs of annoyance…

…until he is.

You never hear a sound. Not a creak on the stairs, nor footfall in the hallway…he simply appears in the doorway like a specter. An apparition, bathed in darkness and sex, sent to ruin you.

Your black phantom moves closer, eyes never landing on you, though you wait on display for him. Nipples pebbled and aching, sitting on your heels with your knees parted so that he might catch sight of his favorite place to play.

He ignores all this and instead, focuses on the soft lengths of rope you have laid out beside you at the foot of the bed.

Jake knows this rope. His thoughts skip to the white rose bushes you planted out back one sunny morning, in homage to his band. You’ve cut it from the spool you use to tie the bushes to stakes, ensuring they grow straight and strong. He will never look at those white roses again without remembering this moment.

“And what is this for, baby girl?’ He runs a length of it through his fingers thoughtfully. “Are you expecting to be tied down? Would you like that?”

“Yes.” When did your voice grow so meek? “Tie me down and punish me…any way you’d like.”

He drops the rope, entirely disinterested, “Spread your legs and touch yourself. Love on her for me. She must need it bad by now.”

You obey instantly, earning a lazy smile in reward. But as quick as that smirk appears, it vanishes, when he leans in close enough to brush your nose with his own, while you circle your clit with faint pressure, careful not to get greedy.

“I don’t need rope, sweetheart.” He hushes like a secret “You will stay where I put you. You will lie still when I say so, and you will move when I say so. You will do as you’re fucking told, or you will suffer the consequences. Are we clear?”

Leaning in, your tongue laps over his lips, desperate to taste him…he takes momentary pity on you and offers the tip of your tongue a gentle suck before straightening.

Wandering over to the dresser, he begins digging around in your top drawer, shuffling satin and lace around, searching. “I’m thinking of filling your pretty mouth up. You look so lovely with my cum dripping off your lips.”

A sound of wanton anticipation whines out of you. “You like that? You want to get down on your knees and ask forgiveness? Prove how sorry you are with a cock in your mouth?”

He’s fucking obscene, and you plan to relish every second of his condescending filth. You sigh shakily in confirmation and lick the lips he spoke of so indecently, eager to get on with it.

“Well, it sounds like you want it, so I suppose that isn’t much of a punishment at all, now is it?” At last he turns, and you drink in the beauty of his face.

“Put these on.” A scrap of fabric lands on the duvet beside you.

Fingers clasped around white silk, your eyes squint in question. “You’re asking me to get dressed? I thought we were moving in another direction here, Kiszka.”

He is across the room in a blink, grip locked around your chin. “Watch your tone, miss mouth. You’re toeing a line you don’t want to cross, I promise you.”

The brat in you shoves up her sleeves, ready to get to work. “Or what? Are you going to bend me over and spank my ass until I beg you to stop?”

The light in his eyes snuffs out, leaving only a menacing darkness that sets your pulse to racing as he slowly leans in. Lips caressing the shell of your ear, he strokes a thumb down the swell of your breast. “No, Sweetheart, I’ll bend you over and fuck your ass until you beg me to stop.”

A sigh of a gasp escapes you, fluttering his hair.

He straightens and casually pets your hair, “But we don’t need to worry about that, do we? Because you’re going to be a very good girl for me, aren’t you? You’re going to be the best girl - all for me, isn’t that right?”

Your response comes immediately, and without thought. “Yes, sir.”

“You see?” He smiles, booping your nose with the tip of his finger. An innocent, cuddly act that doesn’t match the tone of the room “My baby girl has such manners. Now,” he swats a finger at your cheek, “put your panties on.”

“Why?” You’re doing as you're told even as you question him.

With an off handed air, he answers, as if bored with your inquisitiveness. “Because I’d like to taste your cunt on them, that’s why.”

“Please?” Oh, how fucking pathetic you are - and oh, how little you care.

“Please what?” He is so quiet, so tender, as he sinks to his knees before you, you can almost trick yourself into believing he’s going to give in.

“They’re on.” You snap the elastic at your hip and fall back on the bed, nestling into the cool cloud of blankets and sheets beneath you. “Taste me on them. I want your mouth.”

He hums softly, the back of his knuckle trailing over your clit as it aches in desperation. “You’re beautiful everywhere, aren’t you? My pretty, pretty girl. Don’t you wish for a kiss, baby? Wouldn’t that feel nice? Soft and slow? Right here on this perfect clit?”

His fingers wander with just enough intent to make your hips rock as he gazes down between your thighs “Sweet and swollen. Just wants to be spoiled a little, doesn’t she?”

Nodding eagerly, you fist at the blankets, grounding yourself. “Please,”

“You want my mouth?”

Suddenly, you have it. His tongue, like warm, wet satin, laps over you through the scant material you’ve already soaked. “Like that, baby?”

He sounds so smug “is that how you want it? Or do you want it like this…” his fingers peel your panties aside to allow his tongue to wander along freely.

A muffled hum chokes it’s way out of your chest “Yes, baby, please. Don’t stop…” your hips thrust up to meet him “More...”

“Aw, sweetheart…” he taunts, landing a cruel smack against your center that makes your thighs snap together “and you were doing so well, too. Bossy gets you nowhere, little girl.”

Shoving your legs apart, the pad of his thumb circles over the dripping material that is, once again, concealing your clit. “Think you can cum like this?” He sounds so casual, as though he’s asked you for the time. “If I touched you and licked you just like this?”

As his face draws nearer, you begin to pant…breathing lust heavily into the room. “Yes! Yes! Please, Jake…”

His eyebrows raise, mockingly pondering your face as you stare down at him, silently willing him into action “But I’m not even really touching you. I’m touching your panties, that’s all. Are you really that pitiful? Needy little pussy, dripping and begging.”

“Fuck!” Your fist tangles in his hair, tugging at it urgently and without care.

He hisses at the burn of the sting - the flash of pain he has never hidden his affections for - and then there are both of his hands, wrapped around your throat carefully. Ever mindful to never hurt you in a manner unintentional. To never get carried away and leave a mark he hadn’t thought out, coaxed a tear he didn’t anticipate.

You’re left to whine under his wicked glare until, at last, his voice comes…guttural and threatening, yet still glazed in velvet, lush and rich. “Fucking behave yourself. I won’t tell you again.”

His grip tightens, locking you in the warm vice of his hands. He sees the insubordinate gleam in your eye, and he’s warning you, though he knows it will do no good. “And if I don’t?”

The second you speak, you wish you hadn’t. He isn’t the only one who can read the thoughts behind your eyes, and a poisoned malevolence is darting about in his.

“If you don’t,” he offers you a cruel tip of his brow, like he thinks the answer should be obvious. “If you don’t, I’ll make you watch her preen, pretty and sweet, with my cock down her throat.”

You ought to be ashamed for the way your body writhes and throbs at the very idea of it, but you’ll worry about that some other time.

“You’re evil,” you breathe.

He seems amused as his thumb begins to stroke over your pounding jugular, “Am I?”

“Yes.” You’ve never wanted him more.

“Well then, pretty girl…” his tongue snakes up the side of your cheek, “welcome to hell.”

~

Hours may have ticked away, or perhaps just minutes. It’s entirely plausible that time stopped its monotonous shuffle all together, and you’re now floating in limbo.

There is no way to tell. There is only Jake.

Jake, as he moves above you slowly, deliberately - tangled waves of silken chocolate gently swaying, creating a hazy curtain of his scent around you as your vision blurs.

“Harder, baby…” your words are quiet, barely a whisper, and pointless. “Please.”

“Shut up.” He hushes back as if confessing his love. “I’ll fuck you harder when I decide you deserve it.”

You shouldn’t do it. It’s manipulative, and underhanded. You do it anyway. “Did you really want her?”

You know he didn’t, you’re simply aiming to weaken his resolve. It backfires in a way you’d never expect.

“How do you know I didn’t have her?’ He taunts mercilessly, slipping his thumb in your mouth to pry it open. He speaks into it, licking and sucking at your lips and tongue between vicious words, still sliding in and out of you at a maddeningly slow clip.

“How do you know I didn’t go home with her?” He eases his thumb into your mouth for you to suckle comfortingly “Maybe, while Daniel was tucking you into bed, I was tucking my cock inside her?”

“Liar.” You choke out through a moaning clench around him.

A feral sound growls out of his lungs as you squeeze up tight. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t think about it. You were being so mean. Maybe I wanted her because she looked at me like I hung the moon and made her little pussy all wet and messy.”

Your teeth bury themselves into his flesh, but he merely curls his thumb and pries your bite open.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” With a blissfully swift snap of his hips he fucks into you a little harder. “You don’t wanna play in the kitchen anymore now that the heat’s caught up with you?”

Your hands move to latch onto his shoulders through the shirt he has refused to remove, his pants are only unbuttoned and shoved down far enough to slip inside of you, he says it’s all you’ve earned.

Yes, your hands reach for him, but he puts a stop to it with a harsh, clipped, order. “Hands down. Now.”

Palms once again flat against the bed at your sides as you’ve been instructed, he carries on fucking you, filling the room with your desperate moans and whines, and his bullshit lies.

“I wanted to put my hand on her waist right here,” he tucks into the dipping curve just above your hip and grips tighter and tighter, tugging you closer. “Yeah, right here, just like this. Just the way you like. Right where I grab you when you’ve been a good enough girl to take it hard.”

He can feel the muted fury seize your muscles up tight while your heart begins to pound a hyper-beat of fiery madness, and he jabs at you further with a taunting grin, smoothing his palm flat up your trembling skin sweetly until the globe of your breast is cupped in his hand. “And I’d have done it, baby girl. I’d have fucked her, but I knew you’d smell her on me…perfume that wasn’t yours, the scent of her skin, of her pretty cunt…”

“Fuck you,” the blow comes out of left field, even to yourself, and lands hard upon his cheek.

He fights the recoil and nuzzles into it, body humming with electric lust. “You’re so mean, sweetheart. Do it again.”

“Please!” The sobbing need turns your plea into a prayer, fraught with the desperation he has grown completely addicted to.

It rips a carnal, raspy groan out of his chest. He is full of lies, and he knows it just as well as you do. He needs what only you can give. You’ve rendered him a man willing to do anything to get even just a taste of the way you love him.

But, Jake loves the game, as well.

His warm clutch, rough from the unforgiving metal of strings, closes around your throat once more, eyes fluttering when a moan chokes out of you.

You sound like angels sighing, but he doesn’t allow himself to be lost completely, lest you win this round.

“I said, do it again.” Teeth clenched, his demand comes with authority that leaves no room for defiance.

He steels himself to absorb the blow, but his cock twitches wildly inside you upon the cracking impact and you can’t help yourself. “You like that? You sick fuck.”

A grin, flashing and gorgeous, settles upon his beautiful lips. It steals the moment, shaping it into something new, something softer.

“You fucking love it. You want me to hit you back, I can see it in your eyes.”

You can’t hide anything from him - never could. He reads you with astonishing ease; fingertips racing deftly over the tiny blips of braille that map your thoughts. The rushing thump of your pulse spoken word poetry whispering secrets to him.

“I do.” Your confession slips off your tongue with quiet confidence. You are safe with him.

He caresses your face gingerly, adoring you with a feather-light touch you haven’t asked for, “I’d never hit you, baby. I don’t want to.”

A frown that you try to fight pulls at your lips, eliciting the softest chuckle from him, baptizing you in his love. He is your sweet Jakey again. Just that quickly. You don’t know whether to rejoice or mourn. “She pouts because I refused to mar her lovely face. Scandalously filthy, sweetheart.”

You take advantage of that pout he can’t seem to resist, “Fuck me harder now, sir. I need it, baby.” Sir and baby intermingle strangely, but something about it works.

“Yeah? You need it?” He begins moving faster, roughly jerking his hips back until only the silken tip of his cock rests inside you before driving back in, punching a cry of relief out of your lungs each time, over and over and over.

“Let me touch you…” you’re panting and struggling to speak.

“Go ahead, baby,” he sounds so gentle, but he dips down and bites into your neck viciously, releasing only to groan your praises as your fingers lace into his wild tangles “there’s my good girl, there’s my good fucking girl.”

He sweeps airy kisses over the apples of your cheeks, each in turn. “Pretty little piece of heaven, just for my cock. All snug and soft, aren’t you, sweetheart? My girl.”

Nodding in frantic agreement - you are his girl. You couldn’t be anyone else’s - you raise your head and press your forehead to his shoulder, wailing against the cotton of his shirt as you bite into it…so close you can nearly taste the grainy, sugary sweetness of your long awaited release.

“Cum for me pretty, baby.” His demands are breathing out of him tenderly now…gentle as the rain that’s still tapping at the windows. “And say my name, it sounds so beautiful on your tongue. Makes my heart hurt.”

You know what he means, sometimes there is too much love between the two of you. It batters itself against the cages of your hearts. Enormous and overwhelming, threatening to split you wide open at the seams of your very souls…it is too much, and it is never enough.

And you do; you call his name. Chanting it like the chorus of your favorite song, pressing it into the cracks in the wood, etching it into the glass with your cries, so this room, this house, never forgets the love it once held.

The house will remember him as well, the pained sounds that claw out of him wildly as he fucks you through it, and lets go, sinking into you as though he’d like to disappear inside you completely.

This is all that matters. Jake. You. Love.

You’re both breathing up at the ceiling, hands clasped between you as you hunt down some semblance of calm.

“The stew.” You remember, too tranquil to really care.

He sounds just as serene as you do, “Took it off the heat before I came up.”

You squeeze his hand in silent thanks. “We’ll go down and eat soon. I’ll heat up the bread I picked up and…”

Trailing off, you don’t finish your sentence, but he’s crossed over into half-sleep as well, so there’s no one to notice.

Some time later, you blink slowly awake, confused by the darkness in the room. He stumbles his way back to consciousness soon after, and the night settles in with you curled in his lap on the back porch, sharing a bowl of stew - the rain, now nothing more than mist, dancing on the grass.

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @tripthelightjaketastic @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @lvnterninthenight @paintmyhouse @tripthelightfandomtastic @tripthelight-fanfic @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard

[talesofadragon]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞

Summary: In the aftermath of the war, Draco is caged in an unrelenting spiral of distaste and distrust. The pervasive tendrils of hatred threaten to incinerate every aspect of his existence, edging ever closer to Y/N. A breakup seemed like the wisest choice. But a few bottles of Firewhiskey later, Draco is faced with something more daunting than his mind’s distorted illusions—a glimpse into his future. 

Warnings: Allusions to sex

Pairing: Draco x Reader

Genre: Angst | Fluff  

Word count: 4K

All Masterlists | Draco Malfoy Masterlist

𝐈𝐟 𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐤, the weight of guilt would have long since dissipated, evaporating into the vast expanse of time.

But tattoos, Draco had come to learn, lived on a polarizing spectrum—either itched by hope’s gentle caresses or marred by despair’s morbid claws. He liked to call them insignias because he knew that, either way, those brands never faded away. And even if, by Merlin’s stupendous power, their ink were to vanish, the tales behind them would eternally reverberate through the most somber corridors of time.

The choices made and the sacrifices offered in their creation were intricately woven into the curvatures of each tattoo, amplifying the weight of these indelible brands.

“Mate, I have never seen anyone treat Ogden’s Old Firewhiskey so foully.” 

Draco’s silver eyes were unyielding in their pursuit of the black snake that slithered into his pale skin. He refused to look away, not when he heard Theodore Nott’s voice and not when he reached out blindly for the silver goblet, determined to drown the lingering traces of Firewhiskey within it.

As the scorching pace of the liquid coursed through his veins, his heart constricted, and his eyes stung. Yet, he paid no heed to the discomfort, having endured far greater pains in the past.

“Maybe if you weren’t a lightweight then you would have known that the whole Slytherin House and half of the Gryffindors treat it with indignation,” Draco retorted.  

Theodore's arms crossed tightly over his chest, his gaze narrowing as he observed his best friend. Draco's weariness was evident, more pronounced than even during the days of the Dark Lord. 

Letting out a sigh of resignation, Theodore settled in the chair by Draco's side. Taking the goblet from his hand, Theodore filled it with some more Firewhiskey. “Not that I am unhappy to host you, but isn’t it time to go back home, Draco?”

Draco’s fingers tightened around the goblet. If he thought the Firewhiskey was testing his endurance, then clearly he hadn’t anticipated the words that came out of Theodore’s mouth. 

“I don’t have a home.” 

“But you do.” 

“No. I do not!” His voice ricocheted against the walls, pained echoes pushing against the boundaries that confined them. Draco’s voice shook, the rage in his words dissolving into meek submission. “Not without her.” 

“Mate.” Theodore watched helplessly as Draco swung his head back to gulp down the entire goblet of Firewhiskey. He violently slammed the empty goblet against the marble of the kitchen bar, gaze stuck far ahead. “This is killing you.” 

“Let it.” 

“Draco—”

“I should’ve died long ago in that war, Theo. Maybe this is retribution for everything I did.” 

“What retribution, you imbecile? Dooming everything you’ve both built after the war?” 

“Do not mention her,” Draco seethed. His bloodshot eyes matched the color of his soul, a violent red that overwhelmed every one of his senses. He’s hated the war for so long—he failed to realize how much it seeped through his soul until he became one himself. “I don’t want to hear it.” 

Theodore scoffed. He reared back, placing his weight on the back of the chair and studying Draco’s hunched posture. “I‘ve known you since we were brought into the Wizarding World, Draco. I know that you didn’t come here to escape the fray.” 

“What finally tipped you off, oh brilliant Rowena? Was it the way I shut down every mention of her name? Or perhaps my defensive stance and guarded demeanor?” Draco mocked.

With an air of indifference, Theodore replied, “You don’t run away from battles, Draco. You wage them.” 

“That was the old me.” 

"If that were truly the case, then why did you declare war on Y/N? What suddenly woke you up, making you realize that you couldn't bear to be with her for another second?"

A flash of irritation crossed Draco's face as he interjected, "I told you not to mention her name."

Ignoring the warning, Theodore continued with a pointed intensity. "Her name itself is a battle, Draco. One you’ve ignited because of the conflict that rages within you, fueled by your selfish desires."

"Selfish?" Draco roared, his anger escalating. In the heat of the moment, he flung the empty goblet against the wall, the sound echoing through the room. His nostrils flared as he struggled to control the tempest brewing within him. "What part of letting her go for her well-being is selfish? She deserves better, Nott. So I gave her better!"

"Better, is a subjective notion.” 

"It's the only notion," Draco countered, his composure slipping as he struggled to rein in his emotions. The veneer of false placidity he had tried to maintain for days proved futile in containing his anger. "You have no idea the price I have to pay for the blood that rests on my hand. For the mark that’s refusing to die with time.” 

“I know,” Theodore whispered breathlessly. 

Draco's head shook with a heavy burden of remorse. "No, you don’t. Because being a Death Eater's son and being a Death Eater are two separate realms. I would trade anything, everything, to return to a time when I was feared and hated. Because now, I have to watch the world extend their animosity to the only woman who was brave enough to try and pull me out of the Dark Lord’s dominion.” 

Theodore pushed himself off the chair, his movements purposeful and determined. With each deliberate stride, the distinct click of his shoes echoed against the ground. "By pushing her away. By hurling venomous words at her. By replicating the very path the world forced upon you, dragging her through darkness and uncertainty."

“She deserves better! Better than a semi-stable man who was a servant of darkness. Better than a wizard whose father is serving a sentence in Azkaban and whose mother is a victim of delirium. She deserves better—”

“Than a man who is stripping her of her choices the same way his lineage stripped him of his.” 

“No.” Draco negated. If only he hadn’t drank this much Firewhiskey, maybe his breath would have come out steadier and his words wouldn’t have grappled with conviction. “I left for her.” 

“You left her,” Theodore corrected. It always amazed Draco how Theodore Nott, the epitome of reticence, became a forceful and impassioned defender when it came to matters close to his heart, including Y/N. “You left her because you’re selfish. Because you craved your twisted path of redemption. Retribution, as you have so masterfully termed it, should not come at the expense of hurting Y/N. She fought for you with everything she had. And if you are so keen on being a masochist, Draco, then have the decency to leave her out of your descent into madness!”

With a final venomous glare, Theodore took a step back and began to march away from the room. Draco, caught in a state of disbelief, felt his hands instinctively fall upon the cool marble surface of the kitchen counter. He pressed his palms firmly against the chilled stone, desperately seeking solace from the tumultuous emotions raging within him.

In an abrupt intrusion, Theodore burst back into the room. Draco barely had a chance to meet his gaze before Theodore snatched the bottle of Firewhiskey from the counter and swiftly left. There was no doubt in Draco's mind that he must have also cast a spell to lock the cellar to deny Draco access to any and every liquor stored in the Manor. 

In that moment, Draco's vision was void of any specific color—not a glimpse of red, black, or any hue in between. His rage transcended ordinary perception, defying quantification by any shade or measurement. All that existed in his awareness was a hazy fog enveloping his sight, a world imploding upon itself.

With venomous intent, Draco's fingers slithered through his hair, viciously tugging at the strands. Curses and fury spilled from his lips, weaving a tapestry of disaster, painted with every twisted emotion inhabiting his soul.

The shattered glass before him mirrored his fractured heart, and the disarrayed furniture reflected the homelessness of his wounded spirit. If he excelled in wars and battles, then he might as well transform this space into a battleground.

He persisted for hours, tirelessly wreaking havoc until Theodore's once-familiar abode became unrecognizable. Yet, the knowledge that a mere flick of his wand could undo this chaos only fueled the flames of his fury even more.

How ironic it was that he could demolish a meaningless space in mere hours, only for his magic to effortlessly restore it in seconds. Yet, the home he had reduced to ashes remained irreparable, defying any spells he cast upon it.

With a heavy heart, Draco sank to the ground, embraced by the unforgiving coldness of the stone beneath him. Leaning back against the chilling marble, he stared vacantly at the ceiling of Theodore's dwelling. It was no longer the familiar dark maroon he had once known, but a mosaic of melancholic hues. It was in that moment, as the taste of salty tears brushed against his lips, that he realized his own hollow gaze had been the architect all along.

As his shuddered breaths gradually calmed, and the twitching of his fingers ceased, Draco couldn't help but feel his heart, exhausted from its rapid sprinting and relentless pounding against his ribs.

Standing up, he reached for his wand. "Scourgify," he commanded. Instantly, his magic eagerly clung to every surface in the room, diligently working to restore order and mend the damage he had caused.

While his magic busily repaired what he had broken, Draco made his way to the kitchen, intending to pour himself a much-needed goblet of water. As he approached the marble counter, his eyes widened in surprise at the sight of a mysterious black box neatly resting there.

“What in Merlin’s name?” It must’ve been hidden somewhere amongst the furniture because even in his stupor Draco would’ve recalled coming across it. 

Gingerly, he pulled the lid up. What he found inside was something akin to a Time Turner, along with a couple of notes. Knowing well that all those magical devices had long been destroyed, Draco’s curiosity peaked. He reached for the notes, eyes trekking along the lines of Theodore’s handwriting. 

“Temporal Surger, experimental prototype number five,” Draco read aloud. He briskly skimmed across the pages, absorbing more and more information. “Contrary to the Time Turner, the Temporal Surger springboards the wizard forward through time. Though the exact destination remains unpredictable, prototype number five provides a ten-minute window for the wizard traveling into the future.” 

Draco discarded the notes in favor of picking up the device. It didn’t look any different from the Time Turner with an hourglass in the middle and golden outer rings surrounding it. Yet, when Draco tried to nudge the hourglass, it didn’t budge. He raised his brows, eyes narrowing down to investigate the object. His fingers lingered on the rings, the pad of his index finger tracing the surface. 

Inadvertently, his fingers slipped, and the outer rings turned on themselves. Draco paid them no heed, though it became increasingly hard not to notice them when their momentum increased as they followed an unfamiliar rhythm. Draco didn’t have enough time to panic before a bright light emanated from the center of the Time Surger, engulfing him whole. 

When the light weathered, Draco immediately sprung out of his seat. Taking in his unfamiliar surroundings, he blinked twice. At first, he thought it was his broken heart playing yet another trick on him till it became evident that the Time Surger had, in fact, transported him to another place.

“Merlin’s beard, Theodore is going to murder me,” Draco said aloud. He immediately clamped a hand over his mouth when it dawned on him that he didn’t even know where he was or who was in the same vicinity as him.

Draco hardly had a moment to register his distaste for the petrifying yellow curtains and cream-colored kitchen walls before he caught the sound of leisurely footsteps approaching from his right.

He sprinted across the room, his entire body whirling around itself until he spotted, what he hoped was, a door that led him to the pantry. He rushed in but left it slightly ajar, enough for him to peek through. A crease etched itself in the middle of his forehead when his eyes met a tall man with platinum blond hair tied into a bun. 

The man was shirtless, tall, and well-built. His back was littered with scars, some seemingly thinner and more recent than the others. He moved seamlessly around the kitchen, without a wand in sight, opening draws and cabinets to prepare some food. Draco tried peering closer to catch a glimpse of his face when the sound of someone apparating startled him. 

“What is Master Malfoy doing here?” a squeaky voice asked. 

Draco’s eyes bulged out of their sockets, rivaling the size of the round plates that man had been filling with fruits. He bristled, the gears in his mind rushing to concoct an explanation. But how was he supposed to explain that he’s acquired a, possibly illegal, prototype of a Temporal Surger created by none other than his best friend?

“What does one do in a kitchen?” Draco heard himself say in a mirthful tone. He sighed in relief at the plausible answer, but his relief proved to be ephemeral when he realized that it wasn’t him who spoke. 

He widened the door a bit further, revealing a house elf standing in the kitchen, gazing up at the shirtless blond wizard. With the man's face now visible, Draco was taken aback by the striking similarities between them. The man was a slightly older version of himself.

“Blinky serves the House of Malfoy. It’s Blinky’s job to prepare breakfast for her master.” 

The house elf, Blinky, attempted to pry the spatula out of the Malfoy Patriarch's hand. He didn’t relent, keeping a firm grip on it and flipping whatever he was cooking in the sizzling pan. 

“Thank you, Blinky. I do appreciate your efforts,” he said over the elf's loud huffs. “But I wanted to cook my wife a special breakfast myself.” 

A loud gasp reverberated in the narrow space of the pantry. Draco stumbled even closer to the door, almost pushing it entirely open. His eyes widened, intently studying the Malfoy Patriarch's hand. And sure enough, a silver band adorned his ring finger, glistening in the light. 

“Mistress Malfoy has woken up?” Blinky asked in her tiny voice. They must’ve not heard Draco’s shock over the sound of whatever it was that was cooking. 

“Hmm,” the Malfoy Patriarch hummed. He had picked up a goblet from the cupboard, filling it with pumpkin juice. “Blinky, could you please get the Mistress’ favorite flowers? I’m sure she’d appreciate the gesture.” 

Squealing in excitement at fulfilling a task for her masters, Blinky apparated out of the kitchen immediately. By the time she came back with some orchids in a small, round vase, the Malfoy Patriarch had already prepared a full assortment of food. From French Croissants to Quidditch Quaffles, he set them all on a tray and merrily exited the kitchen.

Using a disillusionment charm, Draco quietly followed after his older self. He noticed that the house, or rather cottage, was significantly smaller than Malfoy Manor, yet a million times more alluring. It had a cozy and welcoming atmosphere, adorned with bright colors and pictures from his Hogwarts days. Every decorative piece, whether a vase or an ornament, seemed to have been picked with care, making it evidently known that this house was not of his choosing. Whoever his future wife was, he was sure she had to be the one to decorate the house so quaintly and delicately because he could never fill any space with such beauty.

With careful steps, Draco ascended to the upper floor, his attention fixed on each stride. The walls, still adorned in their creamy hue, now bore intricate engravings of an evocative design. The sight of verdant trees and lush bushes lining the hallway welcomed him, instilling a profound sense of tranquility within him.

The Malfoy Patriarch pushed open one of the doors and casually entered. Fortunately, he left it open, making it easier for Draco to hurry inside. He found an equally charming interior, where sunlight streamed into the room, casting a beautiful glow, while the books on the bookshelf created a colorful display like a rainbow.

In the center of the bed, a woman laid peacefully under the covers. Her entire back was exposed, making a pink tint hug Draco’s cheeks. 

The Malfoy Patriarch offered a winsome smile at the painting before his eyes. He placed the tray aside and walked to the bed, letting his thumbs trace the woman’s back.

“Angel,” he called in a soft voice. “Wake up for me.” When the woman didn’t give up her sleep, the Malfoy Patriarch bent down to plant soft kisses on her arm. They were featherlight and soft caresses as if coming out of a dream. 

She sighed heavily, turning on her back. Draco watched his older self laugh, taking this as a chance to kiss his wife’s lips. 

“Draco,” she whined. And Draco had to brace himself against the wardrobe to stop himself from falling to his knees. "Please, five more minutes."

“Y/N Malfoy, you know denying you anything is physically impossible. But I really need you to get out of bed and eat something for me. Now, my love.” 

He heard Y/N say, “Don’t want to.” And Draco’s heart squeezed in his chest because he knew that she was pouting beneath the covers, and most importantly, she was wide awake but trying to get Draco to give her a few more minutes of his attention. 

The Malfoy Patriarch pulled away, surprising Draco. He walked to the tray he had placed aside, grabbing the goblet of pumpkin juice. Y/N opened her eyes when she noticed her husband’s ministrations came to an abrupt end. She hugged the sheets to her naked chest, pouting when she saw her husband against the wall, sipping from the drink.

“This is delicious,” he teased. Y/N made a face. 

“Give it.” She held her hands out, opening and closing her palms in anticipation. Her husband diligently took the whole tray to her side, positioning it on the bed. “I hate you,” she huffed while dipping one Quidditch Quaffle in honey. 

The man in front of her beamed, shaking his head. “You must hate me fiercely, angel. Your ardor set my soul ablaze a million times over yesterday night. And I've got marks on my back to prove it.” 

Both Y/N and Draco choked at the heat that permeated the air. Y/N’s gaze meandered across the room, trying to escape the heat of her husband’s scintillating eyes. 

“Well, you set mine ablaze a million times over every day, Draco! Go put a shirt on instead of teasing me!” Y/N grunted while reaching for the goblet. 

The Malfoy Patriarch’s laugh roared within the four walls of the room, and even Draco had to cover his mouth to avoid laughing at her retort. 

“Is my wife looking forward to dessert already?” 

Y/N let out a sound that was both a whine and a sigh. She pushed the tray aside and reared back, burying her body in the pile of pillows on her bed. Her husband laughed, studying her pout. Her hands rested on her stomach, and if Draco hadn’t been shocked to his core before, he was baffled at the sight of Y/N cradling a very noticeable baby bump. 

“Draco, please.” 

“Please what, angel?” 

“Not that! You know if we do that now we won’t get out of bed for another three hours!” 

“Would it be such—”

“Yes!” Y/N interjected. She looked like an angry little pixie with her narrowed eyes and pointed glare. “It would. Because we have so much to do today.” She went on to explain that she and Narcissa were supposed to meet for tea in the afternoon and that Draco had to finish setting up the nursery. Y/N kept on listing everything they had to do while her husband intently listened without saying a single word. Instead, he watched her, letting one of his hands wander to her stomach and cover hers. “What are you thinking?” Y/N finally asked, coming to grasp with the realization that her husband had zoned out. 

He didn’t answer at first, noticeably lost in his wife’s beauty. “I’m not thinking. I’m feeling.” 

Y/N let out a semi-laugh. “What are you feeling, Draco?” 

“You,” he replied solemnly. He interlaced their fingers together, keeping their intertwined hands on her belly. “Time and time again, I only feel you.” 

“Dray.” Y/N’s expression softened. She tugged on her husband’s hand, and even though she had lamented that they couldn’t stay in bed for long, she let him pull her to his chest while he made himself comfortable on their bed. “I love you.” 

“I love you so much.” It was Draco who said it. With teary eyes and a battered soul, he surrendered to the images of his older self caressing Y/N’s lips and her cheeks. 

“I love both of my girls. And I only hope our little princess can learn to love me despite all my flaws.”

Y/N shot her husband an indignant look, her gaze filled with disapproval. However, a hint of tenderness softened her eyes, conveying a complex mix of emotions. 

“She does.” 

“How do you know?” 

“She's currently expressing her displeasure at your words by stirring up a commotion inside my belly.” 

“Oh, yeah?” the Malfoy patriarch laughed. He tightened his hold on Y/N and pulled her even closer. One hand on her belly and the other in her hair, he peered down at her and locked his silver eyes with hers. “She’s a tornado, like her mother.” 

Y/N chose not to respond, embracing a peaceful silence instead while staring at her husband. He arched an eyebrow in a silent question. “I’m feeling,” Y/N spoke out. “Time and time again, I only feel you.” 

While her husband's gaze fixated on her lips, inching closer to his own, Draco's attention was abruptly seized by the Time Surger stirring once more. His eyes dropped downward, observing the rings spinning autonomously. 

Torn between stealing a final glimpse and safeguarding the precious moment, Draco reluctantly withdrew from the room. Hastening his steps, he hurriedly exited, stealing one last glance at his future self tenderly pulling the sheet away from Y/N's body until a blinding light dissolved the scene. 

The curtain fell, and he found himself back in Theodore's living room. 

Draco struggled to catch his breath, hurriedly placing the Temporal Surger back inside its box. His restless eyes darted across the room, overwhelmed by the torrent of emotions surging through him, dragging him deeper into the abyss. Gasping for air, his head whipped around, desperately trying to make sense of his surroundings.

His eyes landed on the box, the notes still outside. Future, he read in Theodore’s perfect handwriting. 

“Nott, you knobhead. If you were here right now, I would have kissed you with such intensity time would stop. And even your stupidly brilliant Temporal Surger wouldn’t have worked.” 

The numbness of his heart dissipated, and the crippling guilt roaming across his forearm vanished. Draco breathed deeply, embracing the placidity around him. Maybe Theodore’s walls were grim compared to the ones his future self occupied. Yet all Draco could feel was the warmth of Y/N’s voice and the tranquility of the mornings they were yet to share. 

He rushed to Theodore’s fireplace, not bothering to fix himself up. Tossing a handful of Floo Powder into the fireplace, Draco finally spoke aloud. “Take me to Y/N Y/L/N.” 

He finally realized that whether time turned or surged, he and Y/N Y/L/N were bound by a string of fate that was unyielding in its war against the Sands of Time.

------------------

Draco Taglist:

@imabee-oralizard@ameliaphoenix@arcana-greenleaf@dittos-blog-dylanobrien

I have been wanting to write this one for a while! Feels good to be writing again for our favorite Slytherin!🪄

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[sadceline]

THE ENHYPEN HOST || Special

|| Reverse harem || ft. TXT, Mingyu (Seventeen) & BTS

WARNINGS: foul language, explicit content, group sex, humiliation, sex in public, threesome, foursoome, rough sex, red flags, immoral acts, unprotected sex, morbid jealousy, comedy, parody, possessiveness, violent quarrels, arguments, betrayals, lies, femdom sometimes.

GENRE: +18, reverse harem, comedy, enemy to lovers, friends to lovers

PREVIOUS (FF) CHAPTER:

PREVIOUS (TEXT) CHAPTER:

FIRST CHAPTER:

after the event of TEXT chapter 2....

'Noona what are you doing awake? - Niki mumbles, sleepily, stretching his arm across my thighs at the height of his head and squeezing them. Shit. - Aren't you sleepy... maybe?’ He chuckles, not entirely lucid.

I breathe deeply as I break into a cold sweat. He was close. Close to… discovering me sexting Jake.

But why did I let myself go? I even touched myself, my god - it's fine to be open-minded, but can I handle such an emotional load?

And also the cold way he greeted me. Oh Jaeyun… I know someone like me could never hurt you, but just imagining that I could have annoyed you, that… that makes me anxious, regretful.

There's also Heeseung, him and his stupid way of deluding me. Still, I shouldn't have said those things to him in the hallway, I must have looked pathetic.

But then why does he tell me I'm different? Why does he delude me, even after he allowed what happened with Sunghoon?

And Sunghoon… tomorrow it's his turn. By now I can't rely on his self-control, he'd be able to deny it even as he's doing it.

‘Are you not feeling well?’ He sits on the bed, looking at me. Stupid, if I don't speak I'll make him suspicious. ‘No! Everything's fine!’ Niki squints sleepily, he's looking at me, then reaches out to turn on the lamp on the bedside table. ‘Noona your cheeks are red, do you have a fever or…’

Oh no. I'm really vulnerable right now, I'm not even one to settle for coming once… I really want to sneak into Jake's room.

I stroke his hair and smile nervously. ‘It's okay, let's sleep now.’ He squeezes his shoulders not very convinced but lies back down. ‘Whatever.’

I feign serenity as I get comfortable on my side. I'm not comfortable or even serene, in fact I'm not sleepy because I slept in the afternoon, but if we're being honest, how do you relax with a guy over six feet, with shoulders as wide as galleons and completely naked except for his underwear (according to him ‘he can't sleep in his pyjamas’)?

Eventually time passes in the half-light and although Niki keeps tossing and turning in bed, by dint of staring at the wall in front of me I manage to close my eyes. It's a light sleep, I know I could wake up at any moment, but I still manage to sleep for a while.

At least when, as I turn over, I don't notice a few sighs that are a little too misunderstandable. I don't pay too much attention to it at first, trying to get back to sleep, but I sense that I'm very tense even as I sleep.

‘Ah...’

I hear it but it seems like a sound illusion. After a while I hear it again. It is a restrained moan, followed by deep, intense breaths.

When I open my eyes, confused and sleepy, I catch a glimpse of Niki's beautiful body, faintly illuminated by the various small lights in the room, but not by a direct light source.

Niki is sitting with his back to the headboard, he is… touching himself.

I jerk, as if I've woken up all of a sudden, he stares at me with an absorbed but not surprised expression. Even as he sees me shocked by the situation, he doesn't try to clarify, he just looks me in the eyes and continues to squeeze his cock.

His hand keeps moving, his tapering fingers tightening around his length, moist, veiny, sliding from bottom to top in front of me, unashamedly.

I swallow, having looked away. So far I haven't been able to do this, but when I begin to observe his face to try to decipher his intentions, he simply bites his lip.

Come on… please… so I end up dying.

I swallow, turning away. This is still his room, this is his kingdom, but… I mean, it's not socially acceptable, I suppose.

Of course, there's very little that's normal about this situation, maybe I shouldn't even be surprised, but… I mean, if it had been anyone else, I would have really jumped him.

Every time I try to catch a glimpse of his expression, he just looks me in the eye and jerks off.

No.

No...

‘Noona I said I won't do it - he tells me, catching my gaze again, which continually sags downwards but then tries to come back up, regretfully. - Really… ah… but could I just look at you?’

I blink, is he serious?

He bites his lip again, with more anger, god, he's beautiful. His involved, pained expression increases my blood pressure, my pulse, I feel like by dint of restraint myself, my brain is literally next to explode.

‘N-No.’ ‘Do you hate me?’ He asks then. ‘No I don't hate you!’ ‘Then… - he says, shifting his gaze to my body covered by the oversized t-shirt - let me see just a little…’

He speaks alternating between moans, deep breaths, as he stretches out the words making his vocal cords vibrate like those of a bass guitar.

Shit.

I let out a long sigh, agitated, worried. I don't even look at his face as I clench the edges of my shirt with my fists, desperately trying to calm myself down. ‘D-Do you really not touch?’ He stares at my hands, then biting his lip lifts his gaze and smiles. ‘Well… I know you don't want to fuck.’

I… I know that's not a real answer. He didn't answer my question, but he still reassured me, I guess I can be okay with it. I mean, I want to be okay with it.

I swallow again, my hands shaking as I lift my shirt, but it's not out of shyness. I'm just damn horny and the idea of him touching himself while watching me is driving me crazy, but I have to keep control, a dignity, keep my words.

‘Oh fuck,’ he says, when I am left only in my briefs, sitting on my knees and deeply embarrassed. Niki squeezes him tighter, you can tell by the way he spreads his bare, toned, dry, white legs better. - You have such pretty tits.’

God, how fast that hand moves, in front of me. God, how I want to be, that hand.

‘Fuck… fuck… - He says, still, as he opens his mouth, spreading it wider and wider, his wrist moving fast, faster and faster, so fast that it brings him to orgasm, which he voluntarily directs at me, coming on my thighs. - Fuck…’

Well, at least it's over, unfortunately.

‘Oh fuck, you're really weak - he laughs, handing me some tissues and using a few as well, I meanwhile continuing to ponder the fact that I could clean it by licking it (just kidding… how gross) - I love that you do what I tell you.’

Riki, it is assumed that the pleasure moment has ended, so kindly stop saying things like that. THANK YOU.

What a great gurl I am though, going from dom to sub in less than two seconds is something extraordinary, isn't it?

‘O-Ok, now go to sleep though.’ I say, grabbing my shirt and trying to put it back on. Riki stops my wrists, looks at me and smiles. ‘No, I'm not done yet.’ ‘Yes you are.’ I reply nervously. He chuckles amused, then brings his hand to his cock under his boxers, still hard, still throbbing. ‘Does it look like I'm done?’

I remove my hand as my body paralyses and my mind implodes.

‘You said-’ ‘I didn't touch you, you touched me.’ He laughs again. I feel like laughing too, so I turn away. ‘Riki, you know it's not like that… now…’

And nothing, he pulls it out again.

‘Come on… just hold on a couple more times.’ ‘C-Couple?’ ‘Just because I don't want you to lose too many hours of sleep. - He says, then comes closer again, with the fingertip of his index he grazes my hard nipples, I'm still breathing, at least I'm trying. - Now I have touched you. But it's nothing sexual.’ ‘Y-Yes it is.’ He smiles again, this time he grabs it and I moan sorely… sort of. ‘I'm not going to fuck you, whatever, though… I mean, there's nothing wrong with that, isn't?’ He says this before pulling it a little.

I am a river in flood, really.

‘Lie down.’ That sounds like an order. Imagine if I don't obey. He gets between my legs, kneeling, as he stares down at me from above. ‘You can imagine I'm fucking you, if that helps..’

He then leaves his cock to slip off my panties with both hands, as he does so he is really close to my intimacy, but I can't really do anything. By now I have consented and there is not a cell in my body that wants to stop.

Riki starts touching himself again, I can see his length, his thickness, in their grandeur, it's a great shot. His smug but serious expression, his resumed intense breathing, his balls... in short, so full.

‘Don't you want to touch yourself?’ He asks. I really, really want to, but if I did…. Would I be able to control myself? I have my doubts. ‘W-well, that's fine…’

He looks incredibly annoyed by this, I see his eyebrows arch with irritation as he grabs me by the knees, lifts my ankles onto his broad shoulder and then… shoves it between my thighs, holding me by the same ankles to keep it stable, tight.

Fuck.

‘Oh yeah….even if you don't want me to… fuck you. I want to use you in every way.’ He says, charging harder between my legs, I'm helpless.

To let him do this was like giving up.

He watches me, as I part my moist lips, as I try to remain alert, focused, but my expression is absorbed, confused, as I breathe shallowly, holding myself back, but I am so agitated. My chest seems to burst as he, yes, uses me.

He pulls me even closer to him, this time spreading my legs apart by placing an ankle by each shoulder, forced to show him my pussy. No… he mustn't…. not enter.

I swallow. ‘R-Riki….’ ‘I won't put it in - he reassures me, though he's not too careful, busy resting his big cock between my major lips, starting to move his pelvis more slowly than he did between my legs - that's what you want, isn't it?’

But I had already lost my mind, and I knew this was how it was going to go. How could I just believe I had such self-control? In the end, I don't even know if I should think anything about it.

‘Ah… Riki… - I moan, when his presence starts pressing hard against my clit - this… this… isn't…’ He doesn't allow me to finish my sentence, he closes my legs around his cock again to squeeze it better, and that's when he starts moaning louder. ‘Oh god, yes…’

So beautiful is his expression of pure pleasure, his forehead wrinkled and wet with a few elegant droplets of sweat, which nonetheless… glide over his swollen pecs, imperil his broad shoulders, his long arms, his abdomen so dry and pale, perfectly outlined his abs… wow… he really is a sight, and maybe it's precisely because he's not inside me that I can watch him so intently.

‘I want to cum inside, noona.’ He tells me, as I continue to gasp at his length that continues to stimulate my clit.

I look at him, surprised, but not honestly enough. I… I don't want to say yes, but I don't want to say no to him either, a little because it's like I want to give him everything (apart from sex).

Maybe I should just accept it. Accept that I, for one, don't mind this at all. Accept that no matter what happens, there really is no way to live differently, I have become a host.

As I told Heeseung, I cannot be someone else, not any more.

Beyond what I want to give Riki, I also want to receive, and thinking about it, that's really the only thing I can receive from them: their body.

I should just start thinking like this.

‘O…Okay…’ I whisper, a little scared. The boy wastes no time sticking it in, so fast it hurt, I wasn't even dilated properly, just very very wet. I realise it hurt less in the car because I was a little drunk. ‘Fuck noona, I'm going to fill you up now.’

It's not exactly as he said, he's not just ‘cumming’, no, he's holding me by the hips as his pelvis charges with brute force inside me. I can't close my mouth, it's so fast and abrupt that I have to plug it with my hands.

In the end, I, unable to be someone else, am still me.

And me is afraid that others will know.

Least of all, I don't want them to know.

‘R-Riki - I moan, choking on my breaths, the bed shaking so much that the room itself seems to shake. - Ri….Riki… oh my god, oh god… oh!’

He does it again, still biting his lip before arching his eyebrows menacingly and going even faster, I feel like I'm convulsing. I can't even control my hands clutching desperately at his veiny forearms, maybe I'm scratching him.

‘Riki… is so g…big…you make me…’ ‘Didn't you notice today?’ ‘I-I know…I-I was a little drunk!’

I see him laughing, but seriously, sincerely (all while he keeps wearing me down with blows but ok), he's so cute I want to bite him, somewhere, no matter where.

‘You are… ah… so… handsome.’ I said. I'm so involved and happy in this moment that…. it was spontaneous, I wanted to say it and I did.

I doubted that between my own and his moans, this sentence, said faintly and under my breath, could be heard anyway, but though he doesn't stop, Riki looks into my eyes differently, in a more intense way.

He looks like… a man. Not a kid, not a boy but a man, I shudder, but even this feeling is swept away by his impetuousness, brutality.

‘Oh fuck.’ He repeats again, focused. He's lasting so long..... other than coming!

I doubt any girl, while they were having sex, hasn't told him he's handsome. It's the obvious thing to say, to think, especially as his sleek, masculine, imposing body stands naked.

Yet he… he looked surprised, impressed.

The truth is that by dint of acting for work, they've probably learnt to do it really well: although that, however, doesn't explain why they should use these skills with me.

Or, and I think this under my breath because such a thought is so ridiculous, have these guys simply not had enough sexual experience?

Of course, it could be a question of culture.

But what remains more likely for me, and I sincerely think so looking at Riki's eyes, subtle, dark but brilliant, is that this is just a perverse game. Malicious perhaps?

Nothing matters after Riki empties himself inside me, emitting animalistic grumbling but in a whisper. His body trembles with mine, as the last strokes inside my belly assure the owner that his seed is well within.

When Riki moves, the world becomes heavy again.

No matter what I have thought so far, what remains is only a strange emptiness and a deep sense of guilt. I will not ask him again not to tell others, I will let him make his own choice.

I lie in bed for several dozen seconds, then sigh.

‘I'll go wash up.’ I say, getting out of bed naked. ‘Do you want me to come with…’ - Riki stops himself, noticing my vacant expression. - Are you OK?’ ‘I'll go out for a moment later. You go ahead and sleep.’ I explain, putting my shirt back on. ‘What? At this hour? - He asks surprised, now his expression is innocent again and that… disturbs me. - Why? I… noona did I... something-’ ‘No- I sigh a little too heavily. - I just need to take a walk, I'll buy cigarettes in the Convenience Store in the area.’ ‘If you want to smoke I have cigarettes.’ He tells me. ‘Even? Do you smoke as well?’ I ask, sternly. ‘Noona what's going on? - He's the one asking this time. - You are strange. Did it… Maybe disgusted by what we did? Do you hate me?’

I'm not sure but I feel like this is the second time he's asked me if I hate him, but I… of course not, at most I hate myself.

‘No, Riki. It was good. We can do it again if you want.’ I say with my eyes down though, as I pick up my briefs from the floor. ‘It doesn't feel right…. then even if I have a big cock it's no use if I don't have experience, is it?’ ‘Didn't you sleep with that 30-year-old?’ ‘Yes, I fucked a few girls, but not that many. I don't physically have the time.’ He smiles, but is sad.

Is he serious? I don't know, I'm starting not to trust him.

‘You're good in bed, and I think you know it too. - I sigh again, approaching the door. - You didn't do anything wrong, I'm the one who feels weird, but I don't know why. Please throw out your cigarettes and don't smoke. Smokers sucks.’ ‘You're going to buy cigarettes right now.’ I look at him for several seconds in silence, then smile wearily. ‘Indeed.’

Honestly, I am not a smoker, but I have become one at times in my life. After my parents' divorce, after being kicked out of the house by my mother, after being physically but above all psychologically harassed for months by a man who despite reporting me was never arrested or removed, and last but not least, when grew horns on my forehead.

Now, although I think I will buy the pack just to smoke one, I need to breathe sweet venom.

‘I can't let you go out alone at this hour.’ ‘Don't worry, Seoul is less dangerous than any italian city at night.’ Unconvinced, he glares at me. ‘At least take my number, so in case you can call me.’

Alright.

ok i don't know if anyone cares but sorry for the delay actually it's just that i was bothering to translate, boh leave a comment if you like it and never ask for riki again

NEXT CHAPTER:

[ophelian-darling]

Prompta 94 + 38 with noriyaki kakyoin. He's ready captured you and confessed his love to you and you're still trying to get used to your new home.

"I'm the only one who can understand you"

"You're adorable when you're asleep"

TW: Isolation, Obsession, Implied Stalking and kidnapping, delusional thoughts.

Word Count : 1.3k words.

enjoy ♡

"Smile for me!" 

It's been weeks- at least in your perception. There are certain thoughts of obscurity that gnaw your brain, the effect of Noriaki present even in the scatters of your mind's rambles: Time has no existence except that of the imagination, the more our thinking daubs with life colors, the more we get old. The clouds behind the window marched in a Foggy lane; so dreadful with a beauty of its own.

"Everything is beautiful! our eyes just can't see the bewitching charm of it. it's the human eye that is ugly" 

Noriaki would chatter for hours about everything and nothing. Clutching a brush and standing in front of a canvas, aimlessly coloring a homely sketch in a passion of a Picasso yet in the skill of the Austrian painter, an opinion that God forbid if you shared to him no matter how he insisted you to. Better leave him to swim in a warm sea of his own illusions if it meant that you're out of any disturbing antics he would present. 

A first look at him would tell no secret about the madness veining through him; it's just an introverted classmate with an amateur hobby of painting, someone who isn't recognizable in any way or form. Anyone who sees him scribbling on a paper would think that he's just recording notes for a class, while he is lining a crimson billet-doux. They would think he was fulfilling his class cleaning duty in the evening, while he was wiping the violent evidence of his crimes. They thought he was a sweet boyfriend to walk his lover home, while he was-

"What are you thinking of, Dollface?" 

"Uh-" Instinctively changing your position as you uttered a faux-casual 'nothing', you realized that you were staring through a skylight window for too long, perhaps forgetting (or ignoring?) him as he ordered you to smile. quickly, you put your lips curves to a height that felt awkward, a smile of a rushed family photo. He hummed in response, seemingly buying it so as to complete his 'Masterpiece' (using his words).

"I'm almost done, I can't wait for you to see it" 

"I'm so excited to see it!" you lied, the family photo smile still plastered on your face. 

"This is the best thing I've ever drawn so far" He smiled, cheerfully eyeing your resting figure on the chair "I wanted to paint you in full coloring for so long, and now I'm glad I got the chance to finally do it" 

Just at your left, a wall stood still, dozens of haste sketches hanging on, some semi-completed, others either barely spilled any effort or neglected at their prime, jittery lineaments in dark pencil. You could tell that Noriaki was frustrated with them: they never matched the tableau vivant he carved in his mind's eye; yet they somehow ended up being useful enough to have the honor to be remembered and kept. 

Leisurely, the corners of the house engraved themselves in your memory corridors, so was the daily script of life here: days mimed each other, Noriaki's smiles split into thousands of colors, yet his eyes were ever the same as fake greens; none of them held any normalcy or spontaneity, just faux calmness. In the morning, you both wake up- He's the first to rise from bed, rattling you awake before having breakfast together. His tongue flows when the sun shines, he talks and speaks and laughs and chatters nineteen to the dozen, his voice very clear in your anamnesis yet his words hazy. as your teacup hangs between your thumb and index finger, you focus on the movement of his lips and nod at whatever letter he throws. As the ether discolor into cinnabar, his room is solely altered to be a temple honoring you: poems, paintings and pictures wallpapered the small room in a morbid show of attachment. When the moon is crowned in the sky with stars, The jar of cogitation breaks, and Noriaki would animate his dreams of a family and a blithe life, framing you and him in one iridescent cadre, until the heavy curtain of dreamless slumber falls on your eyes.

"I'm done!" He announced happily "Come take a look" 

You stood up, blood circulating again through the muscles of your backside and thighs. Of course, sitting for two hours in a stiff position to please the Mr.Artist was nowhere of an exertion near his. You just have to sit and look pretty, he would argue.

"It's the best ever! I'm really proud of this one. I've been thinking about making it real for so long, and it's as perfect as I imagined!" The palette in his left hand moved with each word, intonating his speech. He surely was excited- you never got a reaction so enthusiastic from him.

You kept your smile, looking at the product of two hours in front of you.

A dark line rimmed a color that seemed like your skin tone, vigor lines on what you assumed to be the head pastiched your hair, proving even more how much of blind digits he had. The eyes of your own face were closed, an expression you never felt or recognized on your features layered your replica on the canvas. it was what a crow would caw compared to what a nightingale would chant.

"So?" He waited for your approval.

Life with Noriaki taught you a massively important key skill: Lying. your lips curve up, your vocal cords silken as the lie rolls down your tongue "It's really beautiful!" you reach up to his face and kiss his cheek as a 'thank you for bothering yourself to appreciate my beauty'. He basked in your validation and demanded it almost always.

"But I'm kinda curious, why did you draw my eyes closed?" you noticed his smile shift from a saccharine one to egoistic.

"You know you're already cute right? yet not genuinely" He stared at the painting, carrying on "I think that honesty suits your face best. I know that you didn't like the painting, and I know that you never liked any of my sketches or anything I ever made for you" His lips merged into a thin line, a gray flicker flashing in his irises. coolly, he continued "You have that stupid fake kindness about you, you don't want to hurt my feelings, and I hate pressing you to tell me your honest thoughts. I feel like at this point you treat me like a fucking toddler, you encourage and say sugary things to please me… you constantly lie to me to make me happy, and as much as this is caring, it bothers me" 

Your lips sewed themselves. 

"But I found a way. I memorize everything about you every single day, I came to know you more and more. isn't this sweet, My lovely eye candy? I get to understand you better! Now I know just too well about you! Now I'm the only one who can understand you" 

Four eyes widened, two out of pure shock, others out of an unfamiliar emotion, something that sounded like a pink Mania.

"And to answer your question, I realized why I love looking at you sleeping… I couldn't put my finger on it for a year, but the more I see the more I fathom it: you're most vulnerable when you're asleep… all appealing and appetizing and too pure to commit the crime of lying so glibly and beautifully… slumber has just a nice touch on your face, You're truly adorable when you're asleep" 

Thinking has no time to course within your brain. The head of his brush was smudged back in a crimson mix of colors, taking a clot of red and sullying the white canvas, just above the head of your painting. 

"Let's see how honest I can make you"

All red, a human Masterpiece of his.

[crystaltoa]

Ideas and brainstorming for DnD Toa Metru:

Deepening the conflict between Whenua and Matau.

On the one hand, they could clash more over Whenua's pessimism and caution and Matau's bragging and recklessness. Whenua saved the others several times; Matau needed to be saved because he wanted to perform heroic acts.

On the other hand:

Whenua's been so beaten down by losing people in canon that he left several onu-matoran to subdue a gukko on their own. Admittedly after one of them told they can't rely on his help and he should go on, so he respected what they wanted. He didn't believe that Nokama could be saved from the venom.

Matau, while he wants attention, also believes deeply in heroic values. He'd get involved when others don't want him to; sometimes when he shouldn't. He'd not look away when somebody needed help.

I can imagine that Matau would get furious at Whenua for acting as if Whenua is replacable. Especially if he chewed out Matau before for risking his own life through unnecessary stunts. They nearly come to blows because they can't agree whether or not they should get involved into a dangerous situation to help people.

Matau would stick with Whenua, refusing to let him stay in a seemingly inescapable situation. Or he'd rush to look for help. He'd help him pull out of moments where he's frozen because he doesn't know what to do.

Whenua would inspire Matau to stop more before he acts, to plan. He could learn from him how to act more subtly, how to hide both with and without his illusions. It saves Matau several times.

I love all of this!

I can see some issues being brought up regarding the relative durability and lifespans of each character’s species as well, and that maybe having an impact on how Whenua views friendships.

@bionicle-ramblings headcanoned Matau taking an instant liking to Vakama, humans being something of a novelty where he’s from. I can picture Whenua making some offhand comment to Matau telling him not to get too attached to humans as they don’t last very long. (Whenua is not old by dwarf standards, but he has outlived several human friends) and Matau being upset that he would even bring that up, why does he have to be so morbid all the time? (Nokama would also be very cross with him if she were within earshot. You just don’t say things like that, Whenua).

Also, I think Onu-Metru has a lot of gnomes so Whenua is fairly familiar with them and their culture. Or at least, he is familiar with Onu-Metru gnomes. Matau, being a vehicle enthusiast and techie, has met and enjoyed good relations with a lot of dwarven engineers. He’s kind of perplexed that Whenua’s not a craftsman and has little interest in gadgets, weapons and vehicles. (“What kind of dwarf ARE you?” “We’re not all the same, you know.”). Whenua, meanwhile, finds it equally bizarre that Matau does not care for life underground, enjoys heights, and has very little interest in nature or wild creatures. He’s never even seen a forest. They both have a bit of unlearning of stereotypes to do.

Matau’s also going to be the first to make a crack about Whenua being a gloomstalker. “Yeah, he’s darkgloomy alright!”

[personastrologyhub]

Chart Observations, Charts of Selena & Analysis of the day of death. RIP Queen!

SPOOKY SEASON! Okay so in light of all hallows eve, I was feeling kind of morbid this morning and started to analyse how an assassination would appear in the charts of the legends we lost.

I'm starting this series starting with the Queen Selena Quintanilla 

Observations

Feel free to comment of leave your own observations.

Selena Quintanilla was born on April 16, 1971, in Lake Jackson, Texas.

She was murdered on March 31, 1995, in Corpus Christi, Texas, by Yolanda Saldívar.

Astrological Analysis with Example Connections

Selena’s Natal Chart Influences: Indicators of Vulnerability and Fame

Sun in Aries (Self-Determination and Fame): Her Aries Sun (ambition, independence) ruled by Mars (conflict, intensity) suggests a life marked by public visibility and an inner fire, but also potential clashes, especially within her relationships. The energy of Aries can attract passionate, even confrontational, dynamics, as seen in her final interaction with Saldívar, leader of  fan club and boutique. 

Venus in Pisces (Compassion and Trust):

Venus in Pisces reflects Selena’s deeply compassionate, forgiving, and trusting nature, which contributed to her broad appeal. However, Pisces (illusion) can sometimes blur boundaries, making those with this placement prone to seeing only the best in others, which could leave them vulnerable to betrayal. Selena’s Venus in Pisces (forgiveness, idealism) represents her tendency to trust others easily, seeing only the good in them. This could have made her more vulnerable to manipulation by someone close, as Pisces is often blind to hidden dangers within relationships. (Pisces rules mysteries, secrets, something that is hidden and unknown.)

North Node in Sagittarius (Public Influence): The North Node in Sagittarius (public exposure) aligns with a life of influence in the public sphere but also reveals potential risks associated with placing trust in those beyond her immediate family circle. Sagittarius emphasizes growth and risk, which may have exposed her to hidden threats.

Astrological Transits on March 31, 1995: The Day of the Assassination

Mars Conjunct Selena’s Saturn in Pisces (Conflict and Karmic Reckoning): On the day of her assassination, Mars (planet of aggression/fights/war and conflict) was conjunct Selena’s Saturn in Pisces. Mars (violence, aggression) in conjunction with Saturn (endings, karmic lessons) in Pisces (hidden enemies, secrets) represents a confrontation that culminated in betrayal and death. Pisces’ secretive influence implies that unresolved tensions with Saldívar were exposed, leading to a violent end.

Pluto Opposing Selena’s Moon in Taurus (Financial Betrayal and Emotional Vulnerability): Pluto in Scorpio (secrecy, intensity) opposing the Moon in Taurus (personal security, finances) highlights betrayal involving money and trust, with the emotional impact felt deeply by Selena. The financial element is underscored as she confronted Saldívar about bank statements, catalyzing the violent encounter.

The Impact of Transiting Pluto and Mars in Selena’s Natal Chart

Transiting Pluto in Scorpio (Themes of Death and Hidden Motives): Pluto (death, hidden motives) in Scorpio (intensity, revenge) amplified themes of betrayal and secrecy, bringing unresolved tensions with Saldívar to the surface. Scorpio’s association with power struggles implies that Selena’s final confrontation involved deep-rooted issues, reflecting Pluto’s fateful influence on her life.

Mars Activating Saturn in Pisces (Hidden Conflicts Resurfacing): The Mars-Saturn conjunction in Pisces signifies hidden or latent issues that reach a breaking point, often with sudden or final consequences. Pisces, representing things unseen, suggests an enemy within her inner circle whose hidden motives were finally exposed. Mars (aggression, action) conjunct Saturn (karmic consequences, boundaries) in Pisces (secrets, illusions) triggered hidden conflicts and brought long-standing issues with Saldívar into full view.

Moon in Sagittarius Conjunct Selena’s North Node (Life Path and Legacy): The Moon in Sagittarius aligned with Selena’s North Node on the day of her death, amplifying themes of fate and life mission. The Moon (emotions, public connection) in Sagittarius (legacy, life mission) conjunct her North Node (destiny) points to a pivotal moment that defined her path and influence. This aspect symbolizes the transformative impact of her passing, leaving an enduring legacy aligned with her life’s purpose.

Venus Opposite Pluto (Possessiveness and Betrayal): Venus in Taurus (relationships, loyalty) opposing Pluto in Scorpio (secrets, power struggles) emphasizes intense dynamics within relationships, suggesting themes of possessiveness, control, and betrayal. This alignment reflects Saldívar’s obsessive attachment to Selena and the tragic outcome of this toxic relationship.

Pluto’s influence over Venus mirrors the obsessive and possessive dynamics that culminated in violence, revealing hidden motives in their relationship.

Summary

Influences such as Mars conjunct Saturn in Pisces, Pluto in Scorpio opposing her Moon, and Venus opposing Pluto paint a vivid image of betrayal, hidden motives, and an escalating confrontation fueled by jealousy and possessiveness .Each Example Connection reveals how astrological symbols mirrored real-life events, from the violent confrontation in a private setting to Selena’s unyielding trust in someone from her inner circle. Her astrological transits on March 31, 1995, echo themes of trust, karmic reckoning, and finality, as aspects aligned in ways that exposed vulnerabilities and triggered hidden tensions, ultimately marking the end of her bright and beloved life.

[dyns33]

Fight Club

Yes, I made a Fight Club story, Tyler x reader. Tyler Durden being a real person, and Jack another character.

I want to write a part 2 but I need to find the time.

I met Tyler Durden on a beach.

It was during a business trip. My boss had given me an afternoon of peace, and I decided to go to the beach. I have always loved the beach.

There weren't many people, but I wasn't really looking, focused on the sky, the sun, the sea.

Then he caught my attention. Without explanation, without caring about what was around him, this guy was making a giant hand with pieces of wood. He walked back and forth, passing by people without seeing them.

Then at one point he turned his gaze towards me, as if he felt that I was looking at him. We stared at each other for a few minutes, then my phone rang. My boss.

I left without speaking to him, without knowing his name, but still thinking about him before going to sleep.

Tyler remembers it, I remember it, and he doesn't know that I remember it.

I could have told him when we got on that plane.

"Hey, you're the guy who made a giant hand on the beach. I always wondered why. I think about you often. Do you want to come to my flat when we land ?"

I did not tell him. Instead, when he asked me if I wanted to trade places with him because he would have to take care of the emergency door in case of an accident, I stupidly replied that I didn't think I would be able to.

“Too scared ?”

"I mean, a bit ? Unless we're on the ground, or at sea, I don't really see how opening this door could save us. But mainly I meant that I physically couldn't do it, it seems way too heavy for me."

“The illusion of security.” he had sneered. “Most people believe it.”

“I’m not most people.”

“Why fly if you know you might die then ?”

"The same reason I leave the house instead of hiding in my bed I guess. Something can happen anywhere. And my boss kind of forced me. But still I can't wait to be in my bed."

“I can imagine that.”

We talked for the rest of the flight. He tried to get me to talk about myself, I asked him a lot of questions about himself. That was how he took out a business card with his name and number from his suitcase full of soaps.

I didn't know it was part of the game. Even though there was this little alarm in the back of my head, I didn't know there was a game yet.

It was a little clearer when I arrived home to find my building on fire. By a miracle far too foolish to be true, no one had been hurt, but my entire life had been reduced to smoke.

All I had left was my suitcase and Tyler's card.

No, that wasn't true. I had my job, my family, friends, and I could have called them for help very easily. But when I searched my bag, I found his card first, and I understood.

I understood that we were playing a game.

It's impossible to explain why, but I knew that this fire was not an accident, just like our meeting on the plane was not an accident. I had seen something in his eyes on the beach, and he thought he saw something in mine, and from that day on, Tyler Durden had followed me.

I could have called the police. I could have called someone else.

But an intense morbid curiosity screamed at me to see what he would do next. I too wanted to play a game, with rules he didn't know.

First of all, no lies.

I immediately explained to him why I was calling him, and Tyler, good Tyler, immediately offered to put me up at his place. He only indicated that the house was not in very good condition, and that his roommate was a bit grumpy.

“Not fucking Marla anymore ?” was the first thing Jack said when he saw me.

This made Tyler laugh, a nervous laugh. He seemed ready to hit his friend, who was eating cereals in his underwear in the kitchen, at three in the morning. This was obviously neither the sentence he should say, nor the behavior he should have.

It was quickly apparent that Tyler expected people to act a certain way, the way he wanted.

So that was my second rule, never do what Tyler wanted.

After the trouble Jack caused, he decided to use his phrase to tease me. Trying to confuse my mind, as he had confused the minds of his roommate, and of several people who later came to squat in the house.

But Tyler forgot that Jack's insomnia made him vulnerable, and that his many space monkeys were pretty stupid.

I wasn't, I wasn't most people. That's why he followed me.

However, I didn't immediately understand what he was doing with Marla. I thought he was fucking her so loudly to annoy Jack, because it was clear that Jack was in love even if he refused to admit it.

He was jealous of Tyler because he could touch Marla, and jealous of Marla because she had Tyler's attention.

Then I realized that he only did this when he knew I would be home, and his bed was exactly above mine.

“He likes to do it a lot from behind, it’s crazy.” Marla had said to Jack to see what reaction he would have, without noticing that I was there. “I don’t know why he likes this position so much, it’s new.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to see your face.”

"You are mean."

Jack wasn't mean. Jack was a poor little lost boy, who needed to sleep, and he was right.

In his bed, with this body beneath him, Tyler saw beyond the mattress, beyond the floor, and it wasn't Marla that he was fucking.

I was able to prove this easily by asking Jack to change rooms one day. He was surprised, because it was obvious that I had the best room of the place, after Tyler's. He was even a little upset that he didn't have this room when he arrived, a few months earlier, after his apartment exploded.

"Well, I'll leave it to you. Maybe it'll help you sleep."

He was suspicious, but also touched by the attention. He accepted, and we moved quickly, without telling anyone.

In the evening, I imagined poor Jack with his head in his pillow, while Tyler and Marla continued their concert of screams and moans.

Then, as he went down to get some water, the insomniac opened his door to beg his friend to make less noise. The reaction was immediate.

“But what are you doing here ? What are you doing in this room ?”

“Relax, we traded.”

"What ? No. No !"

Tyler went back up to his room, and we heard a creaking sound, indicating that the floor was going to keep a clear track of the bed that was being moved from one end of the room to the other, until it was right on top of mine again.

It was that night that Jack understood that I was not just a passenger he met on a plane and that Tyler had kindly agreed to help. Marla too.

She started to look at me, with her huge black eyes, but never daring to speak to me, probably because she didn't know what to say, and because she didn't want to annoy Tyler.

There was one thing they didn't know.

Tyler himself had no idea why I was here. He had brought me here, and he knew that more than anything he wanted me to open the door to his room while he was with Marla, for me to pull her by the hair and take her place. But he didn't know why.

This man was very good at manipulating others, but he was not very comfortable with his own feelings.

He considered that he had already done a lot for our relationship, whatever it was. He had seen me, he had followed me, he had spoken to me first, he had burned my building, he had offered me a roof.

In his game, it was my turn to move, for several weeks now, and my immobility was starting to irritate him.

I could have continued playing our games if it hadn't been for Project Mayhem.

As for fight club, I didn't say anything, and it had nothing to do with their rules. It was another game, one that I didn't play, and if it amused them to hit each other, that wasn't my problem.

But when the space monkeys invaded the house, whispering plans for mass destruction and leaving instructions for making bombs, I knew it was time to leave.

The game was starting to get dangerous, and a bit boring.

Maybe if I had thrown Marla out, or into Jack's bed, and kissed Tyler to stop him from giving his ridiculous orders, all this wouldn't have happened.

But I hadn't done it, because it might have served no purpose, and because I wasn't like the others, a dog that he could hiss at and run in circles.

The problem was, you couldn't leave Tyler.

He would tell you to leave, you would disappear, but it was never your decision.

The new game was therefore : find a way to escape without being followed.

A nice junkie gave me the solution. I found the body near several trash cans as I was walking home. It was raining, there was no one on the street, no one else had seen them, no one cared.

We were about the same height, we looked a bit similar. With the right clothes, leaving my bag with my papers, and burning the right body parts, it would be almost too easy.

I guess Tyler didn't want to believe it at first, when Bob came to break the news.

Space monkeys found me, totally massacred. The work of a maniac.

This wasn't part of his game, his plan, so Tyler must have been furious. He had to look for who had done it, wondering if it was one of his men, if it was Jack, if it was Marla, if it was him in a fit of madness.

Then after a while, he had to accept.

I have no idea what he did with the body. I did not wait in the area, I immediately took a bus to the most distant city, where I took another bus, without giving my name, and I settled in another state where he would never find me.

I was doing the dishes when they announced on television that an extremist group had tried to take control of the country, and that the leader had been arrested after a long series of murders and attacks.

Seeing Tyler's photo, I pictured him again on the beach, making his giant hand and looking at me. We could have been happy on this beach.

But life is shit, so I finished wiping my plate and I went to bed.