mindtrcks - Tumblr blog

mindtrcks · 1 year

Note

for tyler - maybe something about reader helping rescue him from thornhill & being the hyde’s master instead of her? love your writing style!

this is hungry work

Pairing: Tyler Galpin/Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: vague mentions of grooming/violence, smut, quite a bit of plot oops, unrealistically happy ending

Summary: You may not have a master plan or a decades long vendetta, but you do have Nathaniel Faulkner's diary, and a recurring penchant for taking wild leaps of faith.

Nathaniel Faulkner says that the Hyde is a beast lying dormant in an innocent man. Something waiting to be awakened. A creature loyally dependent on its master, subservient to its core.

Wednesday says that it’s Tyler.

She says he’s a monster, that he killed enough people to get a taste for it, and now he’s killed his master, too. That he’s out of control and it’s only a matter of time before he does something big, before more people get hurt. She says anything he’s done before now has been a lie; he doesn’t care about you, and he never did. You were a pawn in he and Kinbott’s game, and he would've tossed you away the second you’d served your purpose. She says that he isn't the boy you thought, and he isn't to be trusted.

But he's sitting right in front of you, with the same puppy dog frown and furrowed brows as always. He's looking up at you with something like desperation in his eyes, and for the first time since you’ve met her, you doubt Wednesday. How could this boy—quiet and sweet and scared—be the monster she claims? How could Tyler from the coffee shop—Tyler who’s soft spoken and friends with outcasts and isn’t even screaming at Wednesday for kidnapping him—be anything but good?

You don’t doubt he’s the Hyde. If Wednesday had a vision, you’re not going to question that. But you do question whether or not she knows the whole story.

—

You’re at Nevermore when Wednesday finally pieces it all together. She’s been expelled, taking the fall for you and anybody else who’d been in that shed with her. Weems had taken it upon herself to personally escort Wednesday to the station, but evidently, even expulsion can’t stop somebody as stubborn as her.

She texts you from Eugene’s phone, the message just a single word. Thornhill.

It’s all you need to bolt up in bed, to shove your shoes on and search blindly for your jacket. You’re not sure whether it’s wishful thinking or just plain hubris, but some part of you—the outcast that wants nothing more than to fit in, to be a part of something—thinks that if you can stop Thornhill, you can stop it all. You can keep anybody else from being killed and thwart whatever Thornhill’s plan is, and best of all, you can help Tyler in the process.

It’s either that, or die trying.

—

Breaking into Thornhill’s classroom is easier than expected. She doesn't leave Ophelia Hall after eight anymore; the lockdown has grown too serious, the dark too dangerous. It allieves your fear, as you creep through Nevermore’s halls, to know that her classroom will be empty when you arrive. To not be afraid of Thornhill would be stupid; if Wednesday’s right, and Thornhill’s responsible for everything, you don’t doubt she’d be willing to kill you for snooping.

The door is locked when you reach your destination, but you waste no time in picking it. You aren’t sure how urgent this is, aren’t sure where Wednesday is or where Thornhill is or where Tyler is, and you aren’t sure what she could possibly be making him do.

You choose not to think about it as your eyes scan the room. You head to her desk first, frantically flipping through sheets of paper, turning over folders and ransacking drawers. You move to the bookshelf when the desk proves fruitless, scanning the dust on the spines of books. Nothing sticks out; the last thing you deem to try is the filing cabinet, looming in the corner of the room. There’s only one drawer that’s open, the metal dented and bent like it’d been slammed in a rush. Your feet take you to it before your brain even has time to consciously make a decision; your hands pulling it open before you know what you’re doing.

It’s empty, save for one thing: a leatherbound journal with the name Nathaniel Faulkner engraved on the spine.

—

Nathaniel Faulkner says that the Hyde is a beast lying dormant in an innocent man, a creature loyally dependent on its master.

He also says that this loyalty does not run as thick as one might think.

—

The thing is, you don’t know Tyler as well as you wish you did. You don’t get to talk as much as you’d like, or to hang out without the murders hanging over your heads. But it’s not like you’re a stranger, certainly not like Thornhill was. No, you’d go as far as to say you’re his friend, maybe among his only ones. He trusts you, and despite yourself—despite everything that he’s done—you trust him.

A Hyde’s relationship to its master is built on trust, says Faulkner.

And maybe you don’t have a master plan, or a decades long vendetta, but you do have Nathaniel Faulkner’s diary, and a recurring penchant for taking wild leaps of faith.

—

He’s in the woods outside of Nevermore when you find him, looking antsy and wrong.

You don’t want to think about what he’s doing there, about why his fingers are curled up into fists at his side. What he’s done doesn’t matter to you; all you care about is what he will do, what choice he’ll make. You approach him carefully, not wanting to set him off, or scare him away. You can’t imagine what kind of headspace he’s in, or the things going through his mind.

It’s only been hours since you’ve last seen him, but he already looks changed. Whatever act he’d been keeping up in Xavier’s shed, in the police station, he’s dropped now. His eyes are dark and his shoulders tense, mouth curled into something cruel. You hear Wednesday’s words echo in your head—he isn’t the boy you thought, he’s a monster, he’s using you—but you try to drown them out. You know Tyler. You know the good he’s capable of. So what if he’s capable of bad, too?

“Tyler,” you say, keeping your voice steady as you step forward. He doesn’t back up, but he does narrow his eyes, leveling you with a gaze that has you on edge, shifting on your feet, your body screaming at you to back down, turn away.

He smiles at you; not the small, shy thing you’ve seen from across the Weathervane so many times, but something sharp around the edges, showing a few too many teeth. Have his canines always been that big? Sharp enough to pierce skin? You feel something run up your spine; a shiver or a thrill, you aren’t sure, and you don’t care enough to try and discern it. Tyler’s walking towards you, and it’s hard to care about much of anything besides him in front of you and the diary weighing heavy in your bag. “You're the one they sent to fight the big, bad wolf?” he asks, looming over you. He expects you to be scared, to run away.

But scared isn’t exactly the word you would use. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

You can see his face flicker for a moment, quick enough that it would've gone unnoticed if you hadn't been looking for it. “And why is that?” he asks, nostrils flaring as he steps impossibly closer.

You refuse to let the proximity affect you, no matter how much it's trying to. “Because it’s pointless,” you say, chin lifting up in defiance. “You know Wednesday. She won’t let you win.”

“So I should surrender, then?” he scoffs, because he thinks those are his only two options. He thinks this is kill or be killed; keep fighting or get arrested, sent away for life. But you have another option.

“Not necessarily,” you say, as your hand snakes down to your satchel and pulls out the diary. Tyler’s eyes zero in on it instantly, lighting up with recognition, with want. “How would you like to put this whole mess behind you, Thornhill included?”

He blinks a few times before glancing back up at you, narrowing his eyes. “I can’t,” he says, baring his teeth around the words, like it physically pains him to say them.

You raise an eyebrow in challenge. “Why?”

He looks mad, now. Not the simmering anger that’s been in the air the whole time, but a lighter kind of rage that’s more akin to simple frustration. More akin to something you’ve seen on Tyler before. You never thought you’d be relieved for somebody to be mad at you. “That's not how it works.

“Because she’s taught you so much about how it works.”

“More than you possibly could,” he spits out, and it’s supposed to be an insult, but instead it’s just plain wrong. Because you have the exact same diary that she did, the exact same knowledge at your fingertips. Only, you’re willing to share your toys.

He watches as you lift up the diary, flipping to your bookmarked page. It’s power in your palms; power over Thornhill, over Tyler. It makes you sick, a little, knowing his fate is literally in your hands. How did Thornhill ever take it? “‘I have heard of Hyde’s gaining new masters only through means of battle spoils or dark magic, but I imagine there must be one other way,’” you recite, reading off of page three of Faulkner’s section on masters, the chapter you had found the most helpful in your frantic skim-through. Tyler stares down at you with something in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. You’ll unpack it later. “‘Seeing as the decision is always ultimately the Hyde’s—whether consciously or not—if a prospective master was ready and willing, a Hyde might simply choose them.’”

“You want…” he starts, incredulous, but doesn’t finish. He just looks at you, conflicted, confused, and maybe a little bit of something else. You understand that what you’re offering is bigger than anything you’ve done with him before now. Going from sitting across from each other at the Weathervane or being present in the same car—Wednesday or Enid or even Fester always a buffer—to offering yourself up as his master is quite the leap. Still, for whatever reason, you’re hopeful.

“Yes,” you answer, even if he technically never finished asking his question. Yes, you want to do this, yes, you’re willing to take the leap, yes to everything.

Tyler shifts on his feet, suddenly seeming wildly uncomfortable as his eyes skirt around the treeline. He’s looking for her, you realize. He’s scared she’s there, scared she’s watching. Scared he’s in trouble.

A gnawing pit forms in your stomach. “Tyler,” you say, and your voice draws his eyes away from the woods. “I’m offering. All you have to do is make the choice, and all this goes away.”

It sounds simpler than it is. There will be things to do, after. Strings to tie, messes to clean. But right now, all you need is to get Tyler away from Thornhill. Permanently.

Tyler stays silent for a moment, regarding you with something on his face that you don't recognize. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, unreadable. But you refuse to falter.

“Because you don't deserve…her,” you say. “The things she did to you. It doesn't have to be like that.”

He seems to consider this, for a moment, eyeing you up and down. He has no reason to refuse, not really. Not unless he actually does enjoy it, like Wednesday claims. If he likes killing, gets off on the taste of blood in his mouth. You know he doesn't, though. That's Thornhill. Right?

“So what do I do?” he asks, shrugging his shoulders up. “Since you're the expert here. What do I do?”

You close the diary, dropping it down to your side. There aren't step by step instructions, no ancient ritual for you to follow in the dead of night. All Nathaniel Faulkner had to say on the matter is that the choice is always the Hyde’s.

You roll with it.

“The choice is yours, Tyler. Make it.”

He furrows his brows, looks like he wants to protest, but doesn't. He keeps his mouth tightly shut, ducking his head down and focusing hard on the ground. You don't know what it's like, on his side. Aren’t sure how hard it could possibly be to make a decision, but won’t comment on it. You’ll give him however long he needs.

After what feels like an eternity but must’ve only been a few moments, he looks back up at you, and you know instinctively that it’s done.

“Did it work?” you ask, peering up at him. He seems unchanged. The same Tyler you’ve been talking to this whole time. The same Tyler that killed all those people and put Eugene in the hospital.

He shrugs. “Tell me to do something.”

You consider it; there's a million things you could tell him to do, endless ways this could go. In the end, you land on something simple. Something with no strings. “Come here,” you request, plainly.

And he does.

—

So you’re Tyler’s master, now.

It’s weird to think about. Weird to think that you’re the one who figured it out, that this victory belongs to you. You expected it might go to Wednesday, that she’d be the one to help Tyler. Either that, or kill him. You thought his fate would end up in her hands, for better or for worse.

Evidently, it did not.

—

There are many things you come to realize about Tyler in the following months that you never thought you’d get to know.

You know he doesn’t really drink coffee, despite his choice in occupation. He wears socks for as many hours of the day as possible, and he sleeps with three blankets instead of a comforter. You know he keeps a secret stash of twizzlers in the cabinet above the microwave, because if his dad sees them they’ll be gone before the day is over. You know what shampoo he uses, how he prefers Spotify over Apple Music, and which drawer is the sock drawer. You know his favorite TV show is Friends, and that he’s embarrassed to tell people about it.

You’re watching it right now, curled up on his couch in pajamas, empty bowl of popcorn abandoned at your side. Moments like this feel equal parts right and bizarre. Tyler’s a killer, and yet you’re spending your Friday night watching Friends together in his living room. It’s strange, but everything about your life is strange. You barely even notice it anymore.

Tyler shifts beside you; you’re so close on the couch that it seems less like two bodies and more like a wild conglomeration of limbs; a leg here, an arm twisting there, the brush of fingers on the back of your neck. His hipbone is digging into your thigh, but you don’t mind. You wouldn’t move if every one of your extremities had fallen asleep. If the couch had set fire.

“You should…maybe move your leg,” Tyler says, breaking you out of your haze. You don’t have to do anything but tilt your head to look at him; when you do, he’s staring back up at you with furrowed brows and flushed cheeks, working his lips together.

It takes you a moment to realize what he means, to feel that familiar weight pressing into the skin of your thigh. When you do, it’s with a start. Yes, you’ve done this a few times. But not enough for it to be a common occurrence. It may be rare, but it’s certainly not the first time. Once you get your bearings, you find that you’re confident enough to smile down at him, to raise an eyebrow and ask, “Should I?”

He makes a little sound in the back of his throat, and you can feel his hips arch up, ever so slightly. “I mean,” he starts, breathy and quiet. “Or you could keep it there. If you want.”

“What do you want?” you ask, sneaking a hand down to the sliver of skin exposed between Tyler’s shirt and his flannel pants. He shivers, but doesn’t answer. “Tyler,” you urge, trailing your fingers over his stomach.

“Touch me?” he asks, squeezing his eyes shut, tilting his head away.

And you’re not really in the business of denying him. It takes some adjusting—you do have to move your leg—in order to find the right angle, but Tyler waits patiently as you shimmy your way down the couch, until you can look at him and touch him all at once. You aren’t sure how long he’s been hard, but when you trail your hand down and underneath the waistband of his pants, he gasps too loud for it to have been a short while.

He’s hot and heavy in your hand, already a little wet, too. As you grasp him, he shoves his face into your shoulder, exhaling long and slow into your skin. “This what you mean?” you ask, maybe a little mean.

He nods. You won’t make him say it—you’re not that mean—but you could. If you asked, he’d answer. You’ve found that’s true in a lot of aspects of your life. It’s a power you’re still scared to wield, no matter how many times Tyler reassures you. You prefer subtlety, to guide him in this way, rather than by giving outright orders. You think he likes it better like this, too, if the way he’s squirming under your touch is anything to go by.

Friends is still playing in the background, but you’re too distracted to find the remote and mute it. Instead, you tilt your head to press a kiss to Tyler’s hairline, as you start to stroke him in earnest. You try to set a slow pace, but Tyler’s hips chase the contact until it’s fast and hard, just like always. One of these days, you’ll make him sit still, but today is not that day. You let him set the pace, pumping his cock for all it’s worth as he thrusts up into your first. He’s embarrassed, you know, but he barely shows it, apart from the way he hides his face. He’s as enthusiastic as you think he can be, not shy in showing you how much he’s enjoying himself, through little punched-out moans that have the tips of your ears turning red.

You’re not sure how much time passes like that. All you know is that your wrist is cramping and your bicep is aching, but you still feel like you could do this forever. The sight of Tyler underneath you, panting and sighing and practically shaking, is enough fuel for you for as long as he needs. Him falling apart for you has got to be one of your favorites sights; the sounds pouring out of him are music to your ears. At a particularly loud moan, you glance up, take in his state.

His shoulders are tense, his hands clenched into his fists and his hips staying shock-still. You let yourself smirk; one of the many things you know about Tyler is that he’s not always the best at lasting. “It’s okay, Ty,” you say, whispered into his jaw as you pick up the pace, moving impossibly faster.

He exhales in a gust of air, deflating almost instantaneously; now that he knows he doesn’t have to wait, he lets himself relax, sink into the couch. It’s not long after that that his hips jerk, and he jams his face into your shoulder once more, and you know.

You guide him gently back by the curls on the nape of his neck. There are many things you’ve gotten to know about Tyler, but the face he makes when he comes has got to be one of your favorites.

#wednesday #wednesday addams #tyler galpin #tyler galpin x reader #reader insert #this is also for all the anons who requested more tyler smut #i got u #sorry it took me a week

3K notes · View notes

mindtrcks · 1 year

Text

oh, dilute me

Pairing: Tyler Galpin/Reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: AFAB reader, manipulation, light d/s

Summary: Tyler can’t have Wednesday, but he might still be able to have you

So Wednesday knows. So Wednesday was bound to figure it out, because she’s nothing if not stubborn, and Tyler stood no chance against the Addams’ family values that have been instilled in her. The values that tell her not to trust, and not to forget, and certainly not to give up. So Tyler can’t have Wednesday.

But he might still be able to have you.

He keeps the act up in the police station; it’s clear Wednesday’s not buying it, but you keep avoiding his gaze and biting the inside of your cheek and he thinks he still has you on the line. You’re not tense and sharp like Wednesday, not glaring at him from across the room. You’re still making yourself small, still staring mostly at the ground, remaining silent while Wednesday takes the blame for everything. While Wednesday gets expelled. While Wednesday gets out of the picture.

She’s seething when Tyler’s dad finally steps away, you standing by her side looking like you don’t know what to do. Wednesday has lost . Tyler’s sure that was never in the cards when you followed her to that shed. And now you’re out of your depth. Torn between your friend who's supposed to know everything and the guy who’s supposed to be a murderer, and Tyler knows you like him far more than you could ever like Wednesday. He stands up from the bench he’d been occupying and walks toward you, keeping his shoulders hunched and his eyes skirting. He’s gotten good at playing the victim, at garnering sympathy. Your eyes zero in on him immediately, he can hear your sharp intake of breath.

He says your name once he’s close enough, whispered and reverent and betrayed. Your lips press together like you’re holding back tears , and isn’t that something? Doesn’t that mean that he’s won you, too?

Your eyes flick to Wednesday, worry clear on your face, but Wednesday doesn’t look at you. She doesn’t soothe your doubts or reassure you that you did the right thing. And that’s her first mistake, because that’s what you need. You need somebody to look you in the eye and say it’s alright , to hold your hands and tell you that you’re good . Tyler’s known that about you since the first time you walked into the Weathervane, with a small voice and fleeting gaze. Tyler’s known that about you since before he knew your name.

“This isn’t over,” Wednesday says, staring up at him with those same dead eyes as always. The sad part is that she believes it, believes there’s some way she can win, still. But Tyler’s got the police, and Tyler’s got the school, and now Tyler’s on his way to having you, and Wednesday isn’t even putting up a fight. It’s pathetic.

She walks past him, shoulder checks him as she does, and he winces for effect. He’s still battered and bruised from Wednesday’s torture, but the pain is nothing to what he’s felt before. You don’t need to know that, though. You’re still standing in front of him, watching Wednesday walk away, and Tyler side-steps until he’s the only thing in your view, waiting patiently until you finally look in his eyes.

It really does look like you’re about to cry. He’d do anything to see the tears fall. “I’m sorry,” you say, your voice shaky and soft. “I should’ve trusted you, I don’t know why—”

“It’s okay,” he whispers, grabbing your hands. Instantly, they stop shaking, and a pretty pink blush spreads across your face. You’re so much easier than Wednesday; Tyler could have made this all go so much smoother if he’d never let Wednesday get under his skin. If he’d looked past the glamor of the shiny new toy to see you behind her, ready to be pushed, ripe for the taking. He sees you now, though, a delicate flower trusting him to hold it, trusting him not to crush it in his palms. “I know how convincing she can be.”

You look down, embarrassed, maybe, or just still not able to hold eye contact with him. “I should’ve stopped her anyway,” you mutter, pulling your hands out of his and towards your own chest.

Your guilt is thick in the air and Tyler knows he’ll be able to milk that for ages; instead of reassuring you again, he just ducks his head down, revels in the way you instinctively step forward. “It’s over now,” he says, letting his eyes skirt up to your face. “Do you want a ride back to Nevermore?”

You trust him enough to get in a car with him; Tyler wonders what else he can get you to do.

—

He’s fighting Enid in the woods when he realizes he has to make a choice.

There’s no way he wins this; even if he snapped Enid’s neck and left her for dead, he wouldn’t walk out of these woods a winner. Because after Enid, he’d have to go through Wednesday, have to go through the principal, have to go through anybody else who's been convinced of his guilt, and by the time he was done with that, he’d already be in a prison cell. So if he wants to win, if he wants to leave this mess behind him and walk away a free man, an innocent man, he has to make a choice.

Enid gets a paw at him, and he lets himself be pushed into a tree, lets his head hit the cold bark, lets himself slide down until he’s shivering and naked on the leaves, and Enid’s staring at him with wide eyes.

“Tyler,” she says, cautiously, both of them human again now. She ducks down to pick up a stick, holds it out like it’s a sword. “Stay right where you are. I’m not afraid to use this thing.”

He blinks up at her, intending to look confused and out of it. “Enid?” he asks. “What the hell is going on?”

She narrows her eyes, but lowers the stick anyway, and Tyler knows that he’s going to get away with this.

—

He stumbles out of the woods wrapped in a bright pink coat, eyes scanning the crowd of disgruntled students as he looks for something he can latch onto.

Of course you’re the first person he sees.

He hasn’t had time to think about how he’s going to play this yet, but when he spots you standing there, staring at him with wide eyes and fingers twitching at your sides, he gets an idea. He pulls the coat further around himself, makes sure he’s shaking enough for it to be visible as he approaches you. He watches as you take him in, cataloging the scrapes and bruises, the dirt on his skin. He says your name, and your eyes flick to his face. “I—” he starts, ready to rattle off something untrue and pitiful, something that’ll make your gaze soften, that’ll make you reach out to touch him.

But you’re interrupting him before he can, stepping forward and jutting up your chin. “It’s over now,” you say, echoing his words in the police station, and he freezes. Tries to scan through his memory to find what he got wrong, because he had you, he knows he had you, why are you—

His careening train of thought is once more cut off when you take both of his hands in your own—you have a thing for stealing his moves, evidently. “I don’t want to know,” you say, looking grim. Looking like you really already do know. Tyler’s panicking a little; this is his last card to play, and if you don’t believe him, and Wednesday doesn’t believe him, then nobody will. He furrows his brows, doesn’t have to fake the confusion in his eyes. “Whatever lie you’re spinning,” you continue. “I don’t want to hear. Save it for the police.”

And that’s not what Tyler was expecting. But he can work with it. Right? Sure, maybe you know more than he thought. Maybe you don’t trust him the way you were pretending to. But you’re still here. You’re still holding his hands, fingers on his pulse point, and standing close enough that your hips are touching his. You’re not what he thought, but you’re not as bad as you could be; you’re not Wednesday, who's already glaring from across the crowd. You’re not on your way back to the station, ready to tell the whole world that Wednesday was right.

You’re here, with him.

—

His story is that it was all Thornhill. She manipulated him, tricked him into killing people and he didn’t know anything about any of it.

You’re next to him in the police station as he gives the official statement to his dad. He’s wearing your clothes—pajamas you’d rummaged through your dorm room for while he stood in the doorway, not knowing what to say or how to act. He still doesn't. He doesn't know what you know or what you’re thinking or what your plan is. But he knows you’re here, and for now that’s the only thing he really cares about. He gives the statement, lets his dad hug him and apologize, rattle on about how it’s his fault.

And then he looks at you. He doesn't know where he's supposed to go next, what he's supposed to do next. But he does know that wherever you go, he'll follow.

—

Six months later, and he's enrolled at Nevermore.

The general student population leaves him be; in a school for outcasts, he's not the strangest one there. He can skirt by without being noticed by most. Fly under the radar, go unrecognized. People who don't remember what happened, who weren't there that night in the woods, assume he's a wolf; they don't question why there has to be a special set of chains for him in the nurse’s office. They don't question anything.

There are a few exceptions. They come mostly in the form of Wednesday’s friends. They look at him like they're sorry for him, sorry that he's there, sorry for what he is, or sorry that they locked him in a shed and tortured him not even a year ago. It makes Tyler’s skin crawl, their pity, their guilt. It's like he's the one who's supposed to absolve them, and he's got no interest in doing that. But he supposes it's better than them knowing . Anything would be better than them knowing.

The only people who know are you and Wednesday. The latter reacts about how he would expect; she glares at him in classes they share, calls him a monster in the hallways for everybody to hear. She avoids spending any time with him at all unless she has to, and she rarely has to. She hates him, that much is clear, but Tyler doesn't mind. It seems like she's given up on trying to convict him, which is all he really cared about. She's moved on to bigger things. In a place like this, with people like him, there's always a monster to hunt. For Wednesday, Tyler is last year’s obsession.

For you, the story is different.

Because you know. He knows you know; how could you not? You know what he did and you know all the things he lied about, and you know how he's still lying now. But you don't seem to mind. You act like nothing's changed. You spend your weekends in his dorm, your free periods sitting with your legs tangled up in his. You brush your fingers over his cheekbones, smirk and whisper things under your breath that only he can hear. If his life was once sink or swim, now the only thing he can do is drown in you. He's wearing your clothes more often than he wears own; he's with you more often than he’s not.

He knows he should be concerned. He's supposed to have the upper hand over you, supposed to make your cheeks flush and your words tumble out of your mouth. But he’s increasingly finding that the opposite is true. One look from you and he forgets everything he's ever taught himself about not getting attached, about the danger of distractions. If you say run, he says how far , if you say jump, he'll ask how high?

He doesn't do anything without thinking of you; he does everything hoping it’ll make you happy.

“Like this?” he asks, crooking his fingers as you’d instructed. You sigh and press your face into his shoulder, nodding against his skin. He's best at pleasing you like this, at taking you apart under his hands. He brushes your hair out of your face and presses deeper, harder, reveling in the way you gasp. He’s always done anything to get you stay; if only he knew back when he met you that this is what it takes.

You lift a hand to push at his, say, “ Okay ,” all out of breath, and he knows immediately to stop, eyes flicking up at you, waiting for direction. “Okay, Tyler. I want your mouth now.”

He makes a pitiful sound that he would've been embarrassed about a year ago, but doesn't think twice of now as he pushes himself further down the bed, lifts your legs up and over his shoulders. You’re already wet; he’s been fingering you for God knows how long, but he would’ve kept going until his fingers cramped up if you wanted him to. He’s glad you didn’t. He likes tasting you so much better, and he wastes no time getting to work now that he’s got permission.

You’ve said before he eats you out like he’s starved for it. Maybe he is. As he licks at you, your thighs trapping him in place and your hand pulling ever-so-slightly where it's buried in his hair, he feels as though his taste for blood has been replaced with a taste for you. Maybe that was your plan all along, get him addicted to this so he won’t do that again. If it was, it’s working. You’re the only person he’ll kill for now.

“Just like that,” he hears you breath out, your hips lifting up to grind into his face. He squeezes his eyes shut, moves his tongue faster. His own hips are searching for friction against the bedsheets, but it’s fruitless. You still haven’t touched him, and he knows he won't be able to come until you do. He can’t find it in himself to be frustrated, though, not when you’re letting him do this. Not when he can hear you gasping above him, when he can feel you wet against his lips.

He’s done this enough times that he can tell when you’re about to come. You grip at the sheets, your hand in his hair tightening enough to sting. He can feel your legs tense up, your thighs quiver. But what gives it away are the little punched-out moans that start tearing out of your mouth, loud enough they almost sound like sobs. Tyler hums against you, shifts the angle so work his tongue inside you and nose at your clit.

At that, you cry out, shaking underneath him, and he knows you’ve finished, but he doesn't stop, doesn’t pull away until you sink back into the bed and brush your knuckles over his cheekbone. When you pull him up to kiss him all slow and sweet, there are tear tracks on your cheeks.

He once thought he'd give anything to see you cry; turns out, all he had to give was himself.

#wednesday #tyler galpin #tyler galpin x reader #wednesday addams #enid sinclair #i did the thing #this is what people post on tumblr right #reader insert #i also posted this on ao3 it isn't plagiarism i swear

4K notes · View notes