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samazing0831 · 23 days ago

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How to Break a Curse - Fred Weasley x Reader

Fred Weasley has always known how to flirt - except with you. Because with you, it would've meant something. Too much. And so he kept quiet. Even after the war. Even after you'd both survived everything but the truth.

But when a compulsion curse forces Fred to speak every truth he's ever buried - including the ones he's hidden from himself - you're called in to help. What starts as magical diagnosis becomes an unraveling of everything between you: school memories, missed chances, and the love you both spent years refusing to name.

Now the spell is breaking. But what if you're not ready for what comes next?

What if the truth is still too big to say?

6.1k words

A/N: This fic is for the Fred girlies who like emotional damage, slow-burn mutual pining, and the catharsis of finally saying the things that have gone unsaid for years. If you love accidental confessions, ancient magic, post-war grief, and the slowest of slow burns - this one's for you.

Fred Weasley never told you how he felt.

Not when you bandaged his hand after a failed fireworks charm in fourth year.

Not when Snape paired you together in Potions and you spilled Amortentia all over his notes - and he didn’t care, because your laugh sounded exactly like the fizzing of a sweet joke just before it exploded.

Not even after the war, when you’d grown into your own kind of brilliant, training under the best curse-breakers while he rebuilt the shop and himself at the same time.

You were always in his orbit. Close enough to touch. But never quite his.

He flirted with everyone. Everyone except you.

Because it would have meant something. Too much.

So he didn’t say it.

Not until the day the curse made it impossible not to.

The last thing Fred remembered before the spell hit was the sound of George saying, “You absolute idiot, don’t eat that -”

Then:

Snap.

Spark.

Dark.

Then:

Truth.

The owl arrived with an irritated rattle of wings and an urgent red seal.

You barely glanced up at first - still hunched over a centuries old scroll, ink smudge on your fingers, neck aching from the angle you’d been craning for hours. You were in the middle of translating an ancient ward-breaking glyph from a Celtic tomb, halfway between brilliance and burnout.

But then your eyes caught the Ministry mark.

You unrolled the parchment with growing unease.

“Urgent magical accident. Diagon Alley. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Spontaneous compulsion spell - patient unable to lie. Curse-breaker assistance required immediately.”

When you saw the name, you cursed under your breath - not because it was Fred Weasley.

But because it was Fred Weasley.

You muttered something unprintable under your breath, grabbed your satchel, and Disapparated without even changing out of your work clothes.

Wind whipped at your scarf the moment you reappeared on the cobbled edge of Diagon Alley. The early evening air was brisk, tinged with wood smoke and the sugary scent of something exploding several doors down.

You climbed the stairs to the flat above with dread curling low in your stomach. You hadn’t seen Fred in months - not since that mutual friend’s wedding, where he’d danced like a man trying to forget something.

You hadn’t forgotten anything.

The door creaked open before you knocked.

“Of course it’s you,” Fred groaned, flopped across the old settee with one hand over his eyes. “Of all the curse-breakers in Britain…”

You dropped your bag by the fireplace and gave him a once-over: flushed cheeks, twitchy fingers, and a slightly panicked glint in his eyes.

“You look like hell,” you said flatly.

Fred blinked. “You smell amazing.”

A pause.

Your brow raised.

“I - I mean -” He turned desperately to George, who was seated on the armrest with a half-eaten Cauldron Cake. “See? I’m broken.”

George choked on his cake, coughing through a laugh. “Oh, he’s so broken.”

Fred didn’t stop talking for the next ten minutes.

It wasn’t that he meant to - in fact, you could see the moment he realized he couldn’t help it, eyes wide with horror as each confession tumbled out of his mouth like a poorly warded truth serum.

“I used to doodle your name and mine in the margins of my Charms notes but made them invisible.”

“I definitely faked a nosebleed once to get you to fix it. You touched my face. It was a whole thing.”

“I flirted with Angelina to distract from the fact that I was in love with someone else. Obviously, it didn’t work.”

You stared at him.

“I -” he began, horrified, “I didn’t mean to say that. Wait. No. I did. I just didn’t mean to say it now.”

You slowly closed your diagnostic journal and looked at him - not the patient, not the prankster, but the boy you used to pass notes to in the library. The boy you tried so hard to ignore, even when he sat two rows over, turning your insides to jelly every time he laughed.

“Well,” you said, rising to your feet, “this is going to be interesting.”

The day faded into a dusky blue-gray outside, street lamps flickering to life below the window. You’d stayed longer than you meant to - partly for professional reasons, partly because Fred had finally stopped talking and fallen asleep, and partly because…

Well.

Because being in that flat again felt like stepping backward into something half-familiar and half-forbidden.

You moved quietly through the room, setting up the last of the diagnostic wards around his bed for overnight monitoring. A soft glow followed your wand tip, encasing the mattress in a protective shimmer.

That’s when you saw it - a photo, old and curling at the edges, tucked just under his lamp.

You reached for it without thinking.

It was one of those enchanted prints from Hogwarts: you and Alicia laughing on the lawn, books open but forgotten. Behind you, Fred photobombed with both thumbs up, mid-wink, grinning like he knew a secret.

He’d cut the photo unevenly to frame just you.

He caught you looking.

“I’ve had that since sixth year,” he said softly. “I never showed anyone. George would’ve never let me live it down.”

Your fingers lingered on the edge of the photo. Something in your chest tightened - an old, bruised feeling you’d never let surface until now.

You remembered that day.

You remembered the way Fred kept circling, teasing Alicia, always just barely brushing by you.

You thought it was a coincidence.

But now… now you weren’t so sure.

Truth, unfortunately, doesn’t sleep.

You’d only been back at the Weasley flat for one day and already regretted not charging triple.

The spell was something you hadn’t seen in years - an ancient truth-compulsion enchantment originally designed by paranoid Ministry officials during the early wizarding trials. It latched onto emotion. Instinct. Buried thoughts.

It wasn’t just a compulsion to speak.

It was a pressure point in the soul - twisting at instinct and memory, unraveling the threads people usually kept hidden. The deeper someone buried a thought, the faster it rose to the surface. Emotion made it worse. Shame made it impossible. The spell clung to those things like a bloodhound with a grudge.

In short: Fred was a live wire with absolutely no filter.

And he hated it.

Morning light spilled through the window of the flat like a spotlight on bad decisions.

You were in the sitting room again, running another scan - wand calibrated to a specialized focus stone, fingers ready, voice neutral. Fred sat on the edge of the couch, slouched forward slightly with the grim posture of a man preparing to embarrass himself in real time.

He was trying not to look at you.

Bad idea.

“Honestly?” Fred muttered as you hovered a spell-focus over his chest to measure magical resistance, “I can feel your hand through my shirt and it’s killing me. Thought you should know. For science.”

You didn’t blink. “Noted.”

“You’re very professional. That’s frustrating.”

“You can stop talking any time.”

“I really can’t,” he said miserably. “Also, your hair looks really soft today.”

You dropped the focus on his stomach.

He wheezed.

You stepped back calmly, scribbled a note, and pretended not to notice the color blooming at the tops of his ears.

By mid-afternoon, the flat had grown stifling - too small, too loud, too filled with unsaid things that Fred might accidentally say. You relocated to the front of the shop under the guise of needing open space for magical threshold testing, but really, you just needed to breathe.

George had roped Lee Jordan into helping restock a shipment of Fainting Fancies, while you and Fred camped near the warded entrance with a stack of charm protocols and a battered diagnostic wand that sparked if you angled it wrong.

It was mostly boring.

Until you added a layered pressure charm - subtle, but enough to press against the edges of his aura, and casually asked, “How do you feel under magical strain?”

“Terrible,” he said automatically.

You nodded, taking notes.

He paused.

“Also I think about kissing you at least once a day, and it’s so inconvenient.”

You froze.

Fred’s eyes widened. “That wasn’t supposed to come out.”

You didn’t move..

“It’s not new,” he rushed on. “Since sixth year. That stupid Amortentia lesson Snape had us paired up in? Yours smelled like ink and cloves. Mine smelled like you.”

You looked up sharply.

Fred winced. “See? This is awful. You’re going to run back to the Ministry and leave me to rot.”

You let the silence stretch for just long enough to make him sweat.

Then, finally: “I’m not leaving,” you said, quiet but certain. “But you do need to shut up before you give yourself a heart attack.”

“Too late. Already dying. Will definitely haunt you.”

You shook your head, trying very hard not to smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smirked. “But charming.”

“Unfortunately.”

That night, the flat settled into a soft quiet - the kind that only comes after a day spent pretending not to feel what you’re feeling.

You stayed in the spare room, door slightly ajar. Moonlight filtered in through the window, painting silver lines across your notebook as you sat cross-legged on the bed, journal open, mind racing.

Fred had always been flirtatious - you knew that. He’d turned it into an art form. But this… this wasn’t practiced lines or clever banter. It was too raw. Too uncertain. Too honest.

He wasn’t performing anymore.

He was unraveling.

You traced the edge of the page in your journal, half-distracted.

You’d written his name dozens of times today.

Across the hall, Fred lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might answer all the questions he was too afraid to ask out loud.

Somewhere between blurting out his feelings and realizing you hadn’t run screaming for the hills, something had shifted.

You weren’t just a memory of laughter in a Gryffindor common room anymore. You weren’t just a ghost from a chapter in his past.

You were here. Now.

And the truth was out in the open.

Fred wasn’t sure if that terrified him or freed him - maybe both - but one thing was certain:

He’d waited years to tell you any of this. And now that the dam had cracked, the only thing he wanted was to keep going.

Even if it killed him.

The day had been nonstop mayhem.

One of the Pygmy Puffs escaped. George accidentally sold a pair of reversible boxers that swapped genders and houses. And Fred? He knocked over an entire display of Banshee Buttons with his elbow, triggering a five-minute wail so loud it shattered two Sneakoscopes and scared a tourist into buying one.

You barely had time to recast the floor-warding spells before locking up.

Now, hours later, the three of you collapsed in the flat upstairs. The lights were low, the fire warm, and half-finished bottles of Firewhisky and butterbeer were scattered across the floor like trophies. You were curled up on the loveseat. Fred sat on the rug nearby, back against the sofa, legs stretched out. George was perched on the windowsill, swirling a cocktail that glowed faintly green.

“This batch might actually kill people,” he said cheerfully. “Which means it’ll sell brilliantly.”

You raised your butterbeer. “To war crimes in candy form.”

Fred clinked his bottle against yours. “Cheers.”

You were all exhausted, a little buzzed, and laughing in that slow, golden way that only happened late at night, when the chaos finally settled and the quiet came.

Which is exactly when George decided to ruin it.

“So,” he said casually, not looking up, “how long did your little school crush on Freddie here last?”

You blinked. Fred turned his head toward you, eyebrows lifting.

You scoffed. “What?”

“Oh come on,” George said. “Everyone knew. Back at school - all those stolen glances over cauldron smoke. The time you tripped over your own robes when he winked at you in Transfiguration?”

“I tripped because Ron threw a Quill-Chewing Chizpurfle at my head,” you muttered.

George smirked. “Right. Sure you did.”

You rolled your eyes. “It wasn’t a big deal. Everyone had a crush on Fred back then.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Did they?”

You waved it off, too quickly. “It was school. We were sixteen. It didn’t mean anything.”

The silence that followed landed like a hex.

You didn’t notice it at first - not until Fred sat up straighter. His drink hung forgotten in his hand.

When he spoke, his voice was too quiet to be casual.

“I certainly didn’t have a crush on you.”

You blinked. “What?”

He looked at you - really looked - and in the firelight, his eyes weren’t playful. They were glassy. Raw.

“It wasn’t a crush,” he said again. “A crush was what I had on Angelina in fourth year. It lasted three weeks and ended when she jinxed my eyebrows off. I had a crush on that Slytherin in fourth year who looked like she’d stab someone with a sugar quill.”

He gave a single, humorless laugh.

“You?” He ran a hand through his hair, searching for words. “You were different.”

George, to his credit, said nothing.

Fred turned back to you. His voice steadied - low, but certain.

“I noticed you before you ever noticed me. You were the one person I couldn’t joke with the same way - not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t trust myself. Because you mattered.”

Your breath caught.

“I used to memorize where you sat in class,” he said with a crooked smile. “So I’d know where not to sit. Being near you made me forget punchlines.”

Your heart was thudding now, traitorously loud.

“And during the Battle…” His voice faltered. “I didn’t see you at first. And then I did. You were hexing a Death Eater - twice your size, might I add - with your arm bleeding down to your fingertips, and you still yelled at me to keep moving.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

“I thought I was going to lose you. And that night, when you limped past me holding your wand like it was the only thing keeping you upright - I wanted to say something. Anything. I even wanted to kiss you. But I didn’t.”

Silence.

Then:

“I’ve been in love with you for a long time,” Fred said softly. “And now this bloody curse is dragging it out of me like some sort of humiliating game and - Merlin, I wish I’d just told you before. When it was mine to give.”

You stared at him, the past rewriting itself behind your eyes.

George stood quietly. “Right. I’m suddenly feeling very much… like I shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, disappearing down the hall with his drink and saintlike timing.

You were still staring.

“I thought you were just… Fred,” you said finally. “Friendly. Charming. Untouchable.”

He looked at you then - broken open, not smiling.

“You were always the untouchable one.”

The flat was still.

Outside, Diagon Alley lay hushed beneath a soft coat of snow, the lamplight glinting off frost-laced eaves. Inside, the fire had dwindled to embers, casting sleepy gold shadows across the floorboards. Fred was curled on the couch beneath a frayed Gryffindor blanket, hands wrapped around a mug of cooling tea.

You sat beside him - not touching, but close enough to feel the space between you hum with everything unsaid.

Neither of you had spoken much since George had retreated to bed with an overly dramatic yawn and an oddly well-timed exit. That conversation - that confession - still hung in the air like dust, impossible to ignore.

You could feel Fred watching you from the corner of your eye.

But you didn’t look.

Not yet.

You were flipping through your spell journal, feigning focus, when Fred flinched.

Your head snapped up. “What was that?”

He winced, one hand going to his side. “Just a flare. Feels like something’s… pushing out.”

You shifted toward him instinctively. “You didn’t say anything earlier.”

“I didn’t want to -” He stopped, then gave a crooked smile. “Didn’t want to interrupt the awkward silence.”

You rolled your eyes, already tugging the blanket aside. Your fingers brushed the hem of his shirt.

“Lift up,” you murmured.

He obeyed.

Beneath his ribs, magic shimmered faintly beneath the skin - a bruised glow ripping with each breath.

You pressed your wand gently to its edge. “This’ll tingle.”

Fred didn’t flinch.

“I trust you,” he said.

You froze.

Just for a second.

Those words landed deeper than they had any right to.

Whether Fred noticed or not, he didn’t let on. He just watched you - quiet, steady, while you worked.

When the charm finished settling and the light faded, you lowered your wand and leaned back with a quiet breath.

“Thanks,” he said, still watching you like he wasn’t quite ready to stop.

“You should’ve told me it was getting worse.”

He shrugged. “I figured if I ignored it, it might go away.”

You gave him a look. “Has that ever worked?”

He huffed a soft laugh. “No. But that didn’t stop me from trying. With everything else, too.”

The fire crackled. SIlence stretched - not uncomfortable, but fragile.

Fred set down his mug, slowly, like it had become too heavy to hold.

“I thought if I told you,” he said, his voice quiet and raw, “I’d lose you.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“Back in school. After the battle. Even when you walked in yesterday. I thought if I said something real, it’d break whatever version of you I still had.”

You stared into the fire. Your chest ached.

“But now…” Fred exhaled, low and shaky. “Now I think I’m losing myself instead.”

You turned toward him.

Really turned.

Fred Weasley - the one who always had a joke, a smirk, an escape route - looked worn thin. Like the weight of years, of unspoken truths, had finally caught up.

“I didn’t want it to be a curse that made me say it,” he murmured. “But it did. And now you know. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You hadn’t realized you were leaning in until you noticed the shift in his gaze - down, briefly, to your mouth.

His breath caught.

So did yours.

And for one suspended heartbeat, you both leaned closer.

Heat. Tension. Gravity.

But then -

Fred paused.

Just enough to pull back.

“Sorry,” he whispered, his eyes dropping.

You eased back too, your heart aching and alive.

“No,” you said softly. “Don’t be.”

Because you weren’t ready. Not yet. Not tonight.

But your hands still tingled from touching him.

And your chest was still tight from almost hearing everything you’d once told yourself not to hope for.

The room went quiet again.

But this time, the quiet wasn’t empty.

It was full of maybe.

And maybe it was almost loud enough to believe in.

The library at Grimmauld Place smelled like parchment and ghosts.

Dust curled in the corners. Enchanted books drifted lazily above their shelves, still dutiful after decades of neglect. Overhead, the chandelier flickered with an eerie blue light, casting shadows that shifted with the turn of every page.

You and Fred sat opposite each other at the long oak table, a fortress of books stacked between you - most cracked open to smudged entries on psychological hexes, emotional compulsion spells, and ancient, half-forgotten curses. The kind of magic people whispered about, but rarely wrote down.

Fred’s hair was a mess, and his jumper had a new hole scorched into the sleeve from a misfired detection charm. He looked exhausted.

You weren’t faring much better.

But there was something about this - about being here, late, together - that made the silence feel full rather than empty.

You ran a hand through your hair and murmured, “Found something.”

Fred glanced up.

You slid a battered tome across the table. The page was marked with a shaky scrawl and a rust-colored fingerprint. The entry read:

Spell Type: Veritas Malefica

Often mistaken for a standard truth compulsion. Rooted in grief-based magic.

Enchantment reacts violently to emotional suppression - not lies told to others, but lies told to oneself.

Fred blinked slowly. “What does that mean?”

You swallowed. “It means… the more you try to bury what you’re feeling - especially from yourself - the worse it gets.”

He leaned back, the realization settling like stones in his chest.

“So I’ve been making it worse,” he said, voice hollow. “Every time I pretended it didn’t matter. Every time I told myself it wasn’t -”

He didn’t finish.

You looked down at your hands. “You’re not cursed because you lied to other people, Fred. You’re cursed because you’ve been lying to yourself.”

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp - it was heavy. Knowing.

Then Fred laughed - just once. Bitter and tired.

“Of course it’s emotional repression. I couldn’t have just accidentally swallowed a cursed sweet like a normal idiot.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

But then: “There’s something else.”

He looked over.

You hesitated, then pushed forward. “I think I’m the trigger.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“Every time the curse flares - it’s when I’m nearby. When I ask you something real. When we’re close.”

Fred stared at you.

Still, you didn’t stop.

“I’m not saying I’m bad for you. I’m saying… I’m the one person you’ve spent years pretending you didn’t feel anything for.”

His eyes dropped away. “Because if I didn’t pretend,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t have been able to handle it.”

You nodded. “I know.”

Silence settled again - quieter now. Expectant.

And then you said it.

“I liked you too, you know.”

Fred’s head lifted. His gaze found yours - sharp. Breathless.

You weren’t smiling. You were just honest.

“I used to sit two rows behind you in Charms and laugh at your jokes - even the terrible ones. I’d take the long way to class if it meant running into you. I noticed when you stopped joking with me after sixth year. I noticed everything. But you never said anything, so I thought…”

“That it wasn’t real,” Fred finished, barely above a whisper.

You nodded.

A beat passed.

And then - Fred said the thing that mattered most:

“I think that’s when it started. The lie. The one I kept telling myself - that I didn’t feel anything. That you were just… someone I missed a chance with.”

Your breath caught.

Fred leaned in, just slightly, voice raw.

“And the more I lied, the worse it got. The more I smiled and flirted and joked like it didn’t mean anything… the louder it got inside my head. Until the curse made it impossible to ignore.”

You didn’t speak.

And, for once, neither did Fred.

He just looked at you - unguarded. Quiet. Like he was finally allowing himself to be seen.

The silence between you wasn’t heavy anymore.

It was warmer now.

Not because anything had been fixed.

But because nothing was hiding anymore.

The day after Grimmauld Place, something shifted.

Not in a catastrophic way. No slammed doors. No shouting. No curses gone awry.

Just… distance.

You weren’t cold. You weren’t avoiding him - not outright. But Fred felt it. In the extra beat between your replies. In the way your laughter skimmed the surface but never quite sank. In how your hands were always busy - labeling jars, reorganizing shelves, rereading the same page for the third time.

And Fred - who had spent most of his adult life performing noise in place of honesty - didn’t know how to survive the quiet.

So he filled it.

Poorly.

By midday, he was back to tossing out jokes. Half-hearted ones. Ones with all the punch of a wet sparkler.

“Careful with that,” he said, nodding at a crate of Sneezing Sparkles. “Wouldn’t want you bursting into glitter again. Not without warning me first. I need time to emotionally prepare.”

You didn’t look up. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Fred winced. He couldn’t tell if you were irritated, distracted, or just… elsewhere.

He hated it.

He hated not knowing.

By the time you’d locked up for the night, the air between you was taut - stretched thin by all the things unsaid.

Fred lingered behind the counter, pacing. You were counting inventory. Precisely. Methodically. Like precision could protect you.

“You’re not… avoiding me, are you?”

You glanced up. “No.”

He nodded too fast. “Right. Cool.”

You went back to counting. “I just needed space.”

“From me?”

You hesitated. “From everything.”

Fred leaned against the doorframe, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Is this about what I said?”

You didn’t answer.

Which, of course, made it worse.

Fred smiled - the brittle kind, the kind that hurt to wear. “Because I can take it back, you know. If that’s what you need. The curse is still having a laugh - I’ll probably say something worse tomorrow. Might as well get ahead of it.”

You closed the ledger. “Fred -”

“No, seriously,” he cut in, too fast, too loud. “We’ll pretend none of it happened. I’ll go back to flirting and making things weird in a fun way. We’ll rewind. Reset. Or maybe -” He laughed, sharp and thin. “Maybe I’ll just stop talking altogether. That seems safer.”

You stared at him. “That’s not fair.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, voice rising. “But neither is falling in love with someone who’s not ready to hear it.”

The words echoed - harsh and hollow.

Fred froze, eyes wide, as if he’d just heard himself speak.

You swallowed. “Fred…”

“I didn’t mean to -” He stopped. Exhaled. Then, quietly, “No. I did. I meant to say it. I’m not sorry.”

You didn’t move.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he said again, softer. “And I hate that I didn’t say it years ago. Before the shop. Before the war. Before I was a complete and total jackass to you in school. Before I let a damn curse speak for me.”

The room went still.

And you?

You didn’t say it back.

Not because it wasn’t true. Not because you didn’t want to.

But because you weren’t ready.

The words were there - somewhere beneath your ribs, curled like a secret. But they hadn’t found their shape yet. They hadn’t learned how to stand.

And Fred - as much as it ached - deserved more than almost.

So you looked at him - open, aching, real - and said:

“...I can’t say it right now. Not like this.”

Fred didn’t speak. Just nodded. Once. Slow and sharp, like something cracking.

Then he turned away.

That night, the flat was quiet again.

But this time, it wasn’t full of maybe.

It was full of waiting.

The ancient ritual site felt like it was holding its breath.

A ring of weathered stones stood half-sunken in the frostbitten earth, their surfaces carved with runes long faded by time but not by meaning. The clearing was silent, save for the whisper of the wind through the bare trees - a hush that felt less like absence and more like reverence.

You stood with Fred in the center of the circle, boots crunching softly against brittle grass rimmed with ice. The winter air curled at your sleeves and stung your nose, but the real chill came from the magic itself - thick and waiting, like fog with a heartbeat.

Above, the sky stretched iron-gray, heavy with unshed snow. The clouds did not move. The world did not move. It was as if everything - time, wind, fate - had stilled to bear witness.

You turned to him, wand at your side. He hadn’t spoken since you both Apparated. Just stood beside you, solid and tense, like he was bracing for something he couldn’t name.

“This is the last chance to back out,” you said softly.

Fred shook his head, jaw tight. “I don’t want to be forced anymore. Not even into the truth.”

You searched his face, looking for doubt. All you found was exhaustion - and resolve.

“Even if that means you don’t say it again?” you asked, voice low. “Even if that disappears with the spell?”

A beat passed.

Then: “I’ll say it again,” Fred said, almost in a whisper. “I’ll say it as many times as you can bear. As long as you let me.”

It nearly undid you - the quiet certainty in him. The gentleness. How hard he was trying not to sway you.

You raised your wand.

Your hand trembled as you drew the final rune, its golden light blooming to life beneath your feet. A delicate warmth pulsed outward - soft, not showy. No sparks. No lightning. Just a subtle kind of release, like a breath held for too long finally leaving the body.

Fred gasped - once, sharply - and staggered a step back. Then stilled.

The pressure - that slow, suffocating undertow he’d learned to live with - had vanished.

No more tug beneath his magic.

No more invisible leash between his chest and his tongue.

It was gone.

And what remained was just him.

Unfiltered. Unbound.

Uncertain.

He looked up at you, and something in his face had shifted. Not dramatically - but undeniably. His eyes, usually full of mischief or guarded deflection, were open in a way you hadn’t seen before. Vulnerable. Luminous.

Like someone standing in the wreckage of something invisible but heavy - and trying to figure out what to do with the air that came rushing in.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

Because the spell was broken.

But the moment wasn’t.

You didn’t want to rush it. Didn’t want to shutter the fragile, aching stillness. So you stood there, breathing the same winter air, magic still humming faintly beneath your boots, waiting to see what - if anything - would come next.

Nothing did.

Fred offered a faint, searching smile - one that didn’t ask for anything, only promised.

Then he turned, and you followed him home.

Back at the flat, the silence continued - softer now, but not without weight. You sat on the edge of your bed, coat still buttoned, staring at the floor like it might offer answers.

Fred had gone to his room without a word. Not out of coldness. Just… to give you space. To let the choice be yours now.

And that was what gutted you most.

Because for so long, he had been the one stuck between wanting and not being able to say it. He had been cursed, compelled, uncertain.

Now, he was free.

And you were the one who didn’t know what to say.

You paced the length of your room, again and again, like maybe motion could organize the ache in your chest. Like maybe you’d trip over the answer in your own footsteps.

The curse was gone. You’d done what you came to do. You’d given him back his voice.

So why did it feel like you were the one unraveling?

Because he hadn’t said it again.

Hadn’t kissed you.

Hadn’t needed to.

And still - still - you felt the gravity of him in every breath. Still, your bones ached with the pressure of something half-formed.

The truth?

You wanted to run to his door and say it first.

But you didn’t know how.

The words lived inside you now - no longer curled and waiting like they had been. They were restless. Rising. Trying to find shape in a mouth that wasn’t ready to give them sound.

You pressed a hand to your chest. It felt like mourning something you hadn’t even lost. Like standing at the edge of a choice so big, you couldn’t see where it ended.

Because the spell was broken.

But your heart was still spellbound.

And for the first time in all of this…

The choice - terrifying, impossible, real - was yours.

The snow had stopped sometime after sundown, leaving Diagon Alley blanketed in a hush that felt almost reverent. The night sky stretched out in every direction — wide, open, impossibly clear — the stars above pricking like tiny wounds in navy velvet. Below, the last shops were shuttering, the alley buzzing faintly with the warmth of distant laughter and clinking glass.

But up here, it was quiet. Up here, it was just you and him.

Fred stood near the edge of the rooftop, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his coat, his breath curling into soft clouds that disappeared into the night. He looked different now — not visibly, not in any way you could point to — but something in his posture had changed. It was like he’d dropped something heavy that had been pulling him sideways for months, and now he was learning how to stand up straight again.

He didn’t hear you at first. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t know what to say.

You let the silence stretch.

It was the first time in ages he wasn’t being pulled by magic — wasn’t under its thumb, its push, its pressure. For the first time, everything he felt was real. Every look. Every word. Every breath between us.

And that meant he had to choose now. Really choose.

You stepped closer.

He turned at the sound, his gaze finding yours fast — startled, raw, searching. Like he wasn’t sure what he’d see when he looked at you. Like part of him was still afraid you wouldn’t come.

But you had.

“Hey,” he said, soft.

“Hey.”

You moved to stand beside him, your coat brushing his, your fingers twitching at your sides with nerves you hadn’t expected. The wind had teeth, but you barely felt it.

The weight between you wasn’t a curse anymore. It was something else now. Something human.

“Cold up here,” he said, his voice too casual, too quiet.

You smiled faintly. “Didn’t think you’d mind. You used to say the cold made you feel alive.”

He huffed a laugh, something wistful and a little hollow. “Yeah. That was before I knew what feeling alive actually felt like.”

You turned to look at him — really look. “How does it feel now?”

Fred hesitated. Then, slowly, he met your eyes.

“Loud,” he said. “Like everything’s louder. Brighter. Sharper.”

“And scary?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. That too.”

You could see it — the flicker of uncertainty. He wasn’t hiding behind jokes or masks. There was no spell smoothing the way, no magic buffering the vulnerability. It was just Fred. Scared. Honest. Free.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you said. “I just wanted to be here. To see you. You.”

Fred blinked, jaw tightening. “But I want to say it.”

Your heart skipped.

“I’ve wanted to say it for a while,” he continued. “Even when I wasn’t sure if it was me or the curse talking. And when we broke it, I thought… if it was real, it would still be there. And it is. It is.”

He took a shaky breath. “I love you.”

The words fell out in the quiet like they belonged there. Like they’d been waiting for the right moment to land.

You didn’t answer right away.

You stepped forward, slow and steady, until there was barely space between you. Then you slipped your hands into his coat, fingers wrapping around his — solid, grounding.

“I know,” you said gently. “And I believe you now.”

Fred’s eyes filled. He laughed — a watery, disbelieving thing — and then leaned his forehead against yours.

“No magic,” he whispered.

“No magic,” you echoed.

Just breath and cold and stars. Just you and him and the night around you holding its breath.

And then, you kissed him.

Soft, certain. Real.

It wasn’t a rush or a rescue. It wasn’t a promise or an apology. It was a beginning — honest and slow, stitched together with everything you’d fought for.

Fred kissed you back like he finally had permission to feel — really feel. His hands rose to your waist, your cheek, your jaw, not desperate but careful. Like he didn’t want to forget a single detail.

When you finally pulled apart, just enough to breathe, your foreheads stayed pressed together. You could feel him smile, wide and shaky and undone.

“Still cursed,” he said, voice barely there.

You blinked. “What?”

He smiled wider. “Hopelessly. By you.”

You laughed against his lips. “You idiot.”

“You love me anyway,” he said.

You kissed him again.

Not because a spell told you to.

But because you’d fought for this.

And it was yours now.

All of it.

#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fanfic #harry potter fanfic #slow burn #post war fred #truth compulsion curse #mutual pining #emotional repression #confession fic #reader insert #canon divergent #soft angst #love confessions #curse breaking romance

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monstersholygrail · 3 months ago

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🤣🤣🤣🤣 Omg im loosing it! Please get vampire bf a therapist to work this out, think he developing OCD poor guy

Not all of my OCs inadvertently catching my OCD lmaooo 😂😂 First Bunny Secretary and now Army Medic Vampire Boyfriend. Poor Ocs hahaha

I imagine him sitting by the computer after you tell him you think he has OCD. He’s silent the whole time he’s reading over the entire history of the disorder. You’re sitting there silently, ready to face the denial that’s sure to be coming.

“Yeah, I don’t have this.” And there it is. You give him a blank look.

“You compulsively check my temperature every time you enter the bedroom,” you point out.

“You’re sick, that’s normal.”

“You always touch my pulse and wait till it beats eight times before letting go,” you mention next. He merely shrugs.

“Well what if the previous seven were a trick?” He shoots out in response, his mind likely supplying that as a reason to fuel the compulsion.

“That’s not how pulses work,” you say gently.

“Ok— and how was I supposed to remember?! If you recall I haven’t had one for a very long time!” He cries out dramatically, slapping his hands on his thighs and storming out of the living room.

With a sigh you get up to follow him. Knowing it’ll take some time before he comes to accept it. Vampires and change not always mixing well. But with your help and your presence it’ll all be ok.

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dix0nspretty · 4 months ago

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Tied in Knots

Summary: Being the only human on the task force is educational and entertaining- until you're compelled by the enemy to surrender information.

Task Force 141 x GN!Reader (implied??), Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x GN!Reader (implied), 1.3k words.

Era: MW2?

TW: Mind control, vampires (?), being tied up, compulsions, Price is a little... questionable when it comes to choices about his men lol. Don't mind control without consent if you're a vampire!

Trinket realizes he doesn't actually have to fully flesh out each and every prompt challenge, impossible.

Day 28 of my bastardized version of Russian Roulette Febuwhump/Kinktober for March that I'm affectionately calling Trinket's Cause of Death. It's basically 50/50 whump/kink where I generate a number corresponding to a prompt.

Day 28: Mind Control with Vamp!141 (whump)

For all intents and purposes, you’re the weak link in the 141. Not because of a lack of skills or experience or the like, nor because you’re younger than everybody else. It’s because you’re human.

You were assigned to work with the 141 task force both by Captain John Price and by the higher-ups within the SAS. It’s common knowledge that there’s something off about the boys within the force- eyes that look a bit too inhuman, canines a touch sharper than they should be. Reflexes quick enough to blur and a way in war that’s almost uncanny. Like a hunger buried just below the surface.

During your briefing to join the 141, you learned just what that was. Vampires. Not Twilight teen romance vampires, mind you, but the kind that’s just as likely to save an ally as to rip their throat out if they have a bad day. They needed a reminder of their humanity and that came in the package of little old you. Warm and human and so fragile.

Price looks at you as a tool- a way to realign his men with the good in the world, to jog their memories of what it was like to be so breakable. You don’t notice the way he looks at you at the end of a mission, the way he catalogues each and every injury on your body. Making sure you’re okay and not broken. Asset protection, he joked around his cigar when asked. “Can’t have the human go back in pieces, we might be next, love.”

Gaz seems uncertain about having you on the task force. He treats you well and is the one with the steadiest hands and most sated appetite when it comes to patching you up, but he looks at you as if thinking of a ghost, eyes lingering on bandages as if to make sure you don’t burn up and extinguish like a dying star.

Soap, to his credit, is utterly excited. Although his appetite is hard to keep in check sometimes, he adores having you around. He teaches you all the neat tips and tricks about vampires-compulsions, what it was like to be Ghost’s fledgling, things that can protect you and injure them. He’s trying to make you comfortable and feel at home simultaneously, always eager to soother over tensions.

Ghost is the scary one. How wouldn’t he be, huge and looming with those bloodred eyes and that skull mask staring you down without a word? You can feel the weight of his gaze on you every time you enter a room, thick and overbearing and begging for you to make a mistake that he can rectify by killing you. Even in your sleep, you can feel those eyes.

You don’t notice that he slips into the shadows of your room each and every night, eyes focused on ensuring you’re breathing. Making sure you stay tucked safe and sound into your bed, alive and warm and all too human. Or that he and Gaz take turns playing nightguard, memories of a long-lost loved one still haunting their minds. They won’t lose this one.

Nobody’s certain just how Graves and his Shadows got to you. You were never at Los Almas, spared from the situation entirely. There should’ve been no way for you to interact with the rival coven and the patch on your vest combined with the necklace around your throat marked you as coven 141 property and off-limits.

All the same, the room stinks of the American coven of vampires, the stench of a heavy compulsion laid by Graves rolling over you as you thrash and scream against the ropes keeping you tied down.

The look in your eyes is near-feral, hazed with the faint orange of Graves’s effect on you. The coven head himself somehow got around each and every protection laid on, in, and around you and mind-controlled you within an inch of your life. Your mission? Gather information, report back, and kill as many 141 men as possible.

You very nearly succeeded as well. Gaz is still patching up the hole in Soap’s chest from where you attempted to stake the Scot in his bed, still warm and sleepy from the night you’d spent together prior. He doesn’t have the heart to be upset with you, even as he curses and bitches at Gaz. No, Johnny is furious with whatever and whoever slipped up enough to put you in this situation in the first place.

When unable to obey a compulsion, the compulsed party goes insane, for lack of better phrasing. From the second that haze settles over you, the assigned task becomes your primary mission in life. It’s hard to complete a suicide mission when strapped to a chair.

Price works on freeing you of the compulsion while Ghost tracks down whatever information you may have already leaked to Shadow Company. It’s delicate work since without the ability to eliminate Graves, which would release you, John has to put you under a separate and stronger compulsion to undermine the first.

“Shhhh,” He tries to soothe your screaming, both hands holding onto your sweaty cheeks to keep you still while he works. “I know. I know, love, I know. It hurts, but you’re doing so well. So well, just listen, yeah?”

The pitch hits a new level as he lays your mind thicker and thicker with his own will overtop the Shadows’. Your body is rebelling, trembling and arching against the chair they tied you to.

Everything is screaming to kill, to obey Phillip’s order even while Price’s compulsion wraps around and tries to strangle it to nothingness. A gentle croon telling you to surrender your previous mission and sleep. Just sleep.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” Soap curses to Gaz, looking over with worry and a pale face. “The lungs on that bird are going tae explode my head.”

You’re slowly giving into John’s influence, the sweet smells of black tea and cigar smoke soothing and washing away the foreign influence over you. It’s easier to give into John, to surrender yourself to the ancient vampire you trust with your life. “Sorry. I’m s… I’m sorry…”

“Nobody’s mad at you, love,” Price promises as he brushes sweaty hair from your face. “We’re mad at ourselves for not protecting you. They should have never been able to compel you.”

John would never admit it- not to you, not in court, maybe not even to his own men, but he’d compelled you ages ago. Nothing sinister, of course, but he’d placed what was supposed to be a barrier of protection against non-141 vampires in your mind. The only ones who were supposed to get in were them.

However Graves got around it is worrying and disconcerting. It spells less than savoury things ahead, for you and for the covens as a whole.

Graves’s influence finally snaps with a pained scream for you, entire body tensing and arching against your bonds before immediately passing out. John was successful in easing you into rest.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Price has to steady himself on the arm of your chair for just a moment, nauseous and dizzy from the amount of effort this took. He wouldn’t say he’s out of practice in the art of mind control, but it is certainly no longer one of his main skills. Compulsion does not hold up in court, as it stands.

“Are they going to be okay, Cap?” Gaz looks away from where Soap is bandaged and resting against the wall. The Sergeants are trying to hide their concern, but it’s a useless endeavour. He can see the shine of worry even from here- one their faces and on Ghost’s as the Lieutenant steps back in, nodding that he did indeed stop the flow of information.

“They’ll be fine,” Price confirms as he straightens up, back popping from the awkward position. “The headache’ll be one to write home about, but Graves’s hold is broken. Let’s find out what the fuck he thought he was doing then, hm?”

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moghedien · 4 months ago

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i'm so confused about all the book readers surprised that Gaebril is Rahvin or even saying that its a change because like....this is literally also what happens in the books? Lord Gaebril was very obviously Rahvin in the books as well??? this was never subtle???

#Gaebril not only exists in the books but is also Rahvin???#this is also a major plot point why is this confusing book readers #this is literally what happens in the books #also some people are making jokes in the tag about compulsion this is not what I'm talking about #I'm talking about people actually being surprised or confused by this #wheel of time #rahvin #wot book spoilers #wot on prime

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d3cay1ngst4tic · 14 hours ago

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choose wisely ! this is for a mini series. c:

#the way i held myself back from writing GNAARLLYYYYYYYY #also there is no compulsion on the options this time. choose whatever you want. c':#this will be a side smaller piece alongside the main series lmaoooo #★ ring ring .#geto x reader #gojo x reader #geto suguru x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk au #geto suguru #gojo satoru #jjk x gn reader #gojo x gn reader #geto x gn reader #gojo x you #geto x you

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clairekreads · 1 month ago

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COVER REVEAL!!! The Token by Sharon Bolton #coverreveal #thetoken

I’m thrilled to be bringing you all the brand sparkly new cover for Sharon Bolton’s forthcoming thriller The Token which is being published by Orion Books on Thursday 6 November 2025!! Continue reading COVER REVEAL!!! The Token by Sharon Bolton #coverreveal #thetoken

#Compulsive Readers #cover reveal #crime fiction #Orion Books #Sharon Bolton

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curlygirl79 · 5 months ago

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Don't Make Me Laugh - Julia Raeside

Hi folks! It’s been a while, but I am back today with a new book review as part of the blog tour for Don’t Make Me Laugh by Julia Raeside. Many thanks to Tracy at Compulsive Readers for inviting me to take part and for providing me with a copy of the book. BLURB: ‘A great book, an important book that will start a discussion that needs to be had…my heart was in my mouth’ Marian…

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#@Tr4cyF3nt0n #Bedford Square Publishers #book blogger #Book Review #Compulsive Readers #don&039;t make me laugh #Julia Raeside

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luvacookie · 1 year ago

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the day plug/shadyshit eren, sugar daddy onny and hispanic connie has no fans is the day that i’m dead.

#💬: alexies compulsive thoughts.#connie x reader #aot x reader #aot #onyankopon x black y/n #x reader #y/n #target audience #eren x reader

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annarellix · 2 years ago

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Seeds of Murder by Rosie Sandler (The Gardener Mysteries #1)

Roses are red, Violets are blue, All the evidence is pointing to you...

Steph Williams has landed her dream gardening job working for the wealthy, gated community of Beaulieu Heights. With her beloved dog Mouse for company, she's quite content to be left alone to tackle the weeds and tend the flowers. There might be one resident who keeps a locked shed to which Steph is forbidden access, and secret feuds she happens to overhear, but it's none of her business. That is, until she's called in front of the neighbourhood committee, accused of blackmailing the residents with notes disclosing their darkest secrets. Now, she's swapping gardening gloves for a detective's notebook, with just ten days to clear her name and save her job.

The seeds of suspicion have been planted. But when Steph's investigation leads her to discover some freshly disturbed earth in the shape of a grave, it becomes a race against time to unearth the true culprit's identity before it's too late...

Buy book: https://geni.us/SeedsofMurderhttps://geni.us/SeedsofMurder

My Review: Rosie Sandler can wait and know what she’s talking about when she writes about gardening. Either she’s an expert garden designer/keen gardener or she did a lot of research as the descriptions and the parts about gardening made me wish I could visit those places and work with Steph in one of those projects. That said she can write and is an excellent storytelling. She delivers a story featuring quirky and intriguing characters. Steph is both strong and sweet, a clever woman in love with her work and ready to fight. Mouse the dog is lovely, and I loved Fiona the painter and Simone. There’s a lot of character development and I had a lot of fun in reading about these group of high society people. There’s some of the spirit of the Golden Age: the best author wrote complex and entertaining whodunit, but they also wrote sharp and merciless description of the high society and its members. The mystery is solid, there’s a lot going on and the twists surprised me. I had fun in trying to guess the culprit and enjoyed the story. I can’t wait to read the next story, another garden and another mystery Highly recommended. Many thanks to Embla Books and Compulsive Readers for this ARC, all opinions are mine

The Author: Rosie Sandler lives in Essex, UK, where she writes novels, poetryand short stories, and is an editor and creative writing tutor. She loves dressmaking and wearing colourful outfits, which often leads to joyful encounters with strangers. Although she enjoys visiting beautifully tended gardens, Rosie’s own garden is a bit on the wild side (her excuse is that this encourages hedgehogs and other wildlife). S he dreams that she and her husband will one day livebeside a lake. Or at least a big puddle. Rosie is co-author of the Agatha Oddly trilogy of children’s detective novels.

Website: https://rosiesandler.co.uk/ Twitter: @RosieSandler

Twitter, Facebook, Instagram: @emblabooks Newsletter: https://bit.ly/emblanewsletter

#cozy mystery #gardening #Embla Books #blogtour #Compulsive Readers #netgalley #review

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filtheopathic · 4 months ago

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serial killer reader x stalker character would go extremely hard

#like… you are sick and twisted and incapable of reigning in your compulsions…#but they are much the same… and they know everything. they’ve seen everything. but they would never dream of turning you in #i think it would come to a head at some point #specifically bc im imagining a fem reader who targets men + a male character #so eventually he (accidentally or purposefully… purposefully would be really interesting actually) becomes one of your targets #but he knows all of your tricks. he almost seems giddy at the prospect. he reveals his true intentions to you and it’s like world ending #you’re completely fucked in the head - you know that - but this man might just be worse

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andsylphy · 2 years ago

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your favorite vampire would rather walk into the sun even if it still burned him up than watch you read any more journals you pilfered off skeletons

#astarion #gale of waterdeep #tav bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #this one's for you compulsive reader tavs #inspired by that one time he complained about crypts #iven was reading at that time too #iven tag

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countrymusiclover · 25 days ago

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3 - The Friends Interrogation

Part 4

Eclipse of the Heart

@kmc1989 @melvia-ito

The insistent buzzing of my phone yanked me back from the hazy edge of sleep. Groaning, I pried my eyes open, the morning sun stabbing through the gaps in the drawn curtains. A heavy arm lay across my stomach, pinning me to the mattress. Damon. Of course.

He was always here, wasn't he? A constant, suffocating presence in my life. A beautiful, cruel parasite.

I glanced down. His dark hair was tousled against my bare shoulder, his breathing deep and even. He looked almost… peaceful. It was a deceptive facade. Like a shark sleeping in a sunbeam, the danger was always lurking beneath the surface.

My hand instinctively moved to push him away. But then I remembered. The compulsion. Damon's compulsion was a silken cage wrapped around my mind, telling me he was harmless, that I wanted him here, that this… this was okay. A lie I was forced to believe.

Before I could fully gather my thoughts, Damon stirred, his eyes fluttering open. A slow, predatory smile curved his lips as he looked at me. "Morning, sunshine." His voice was a low, husky purr, designed to charm. And, damn it, on anyone else, it probably would.

Instead of answering I just stared at him.

Without warning, he rolled on top of me, his weight pressing me into the mattress. One hand snaked around to cup the back of my neck, his thumb tracing lazy circles against my skin. The other began to unbutton my pajama top.

My heart hammered against my ribs. This was wrong. This was so, so wrong. But the compulsion… it dulled the edge of my panic, wrapping me in a strange, numb acceptance.

"Damon," I managed, my voice a strained whisper.

He ignored me, his gaze fixed on my exposed collarbone. The smile widened, revealing a flash of predatory teeth. "You're so compliant, Jaidlyn. It's… endearing."

He lowered his head, his cool breath ghosting across my skin. A thrill of primal fear shot through me, battling against the compulsion's insidious calm. I knew what was coming. I always knew.

His fangs extended, long and sharp. A jolt of pain ripped through my neck as he sank them into my vein. I gasped, my fingers instinctively clenching into the sheets. The world swam for a moment, the blood being forcefully taken from me making me feel lightheaded.

He drank deeply, the only sound in the room the soft, rhythmic pulse of his feeding. My vision blurred at the edges, the pain slowly fading into a dull ache.

It was during these moments that the compulsion weakened, the edges of the truth flickering into view. I saw him for what he truly was: a monster, feeding on me like some kind of diseased leech. A vampire. Not just any vampire, but Damon Salvatore. The man I, as a vampire hunter, should have staked the second I laid eyes on him.

But I couldn't. The compulsion held me prisoner, twisting my will, forcing me to tolerate his presence, his touch, his violation.

He pulled away abruptly, licking the blood from his lips with a satisfied sigh. "Delicious," he murmured, his eyes gleaming with dark pleasure. "You always are."

He stood up, completely naked, and walked into the bathroom like he did nothing wrong.

I lay there for a moment, a strange mixture of anger and despair washing over me. I hated him. I hated what he made me feel. I hated that I couldn't stop him.

As a vampire hunter, my mission was to protect people from creatures like him. Instead, here I am, forced to be his willing meal.

My phone buzzed again, jolting me back to reality. I fumbled for it, my fingers still trembling. It was Caroline. "Hey!" Her voice was bright and cheerful, a stark contrast to my own internal turmoil. "Big day planned! Elena, Bonnie, and I are hitting the Grill for brunch, then shopping. You in?"

A girls day out. An escape. A chance to pretend, for a few hours, that everything was normal.

"Yeah," I said, forcing a smile into my voice. "Yeah, I'm in. Give me an hour?"

"Perfect! See you then!"

I hung up the phone and got out of bed. I splashed some cold water on my face, trying to wash away the memory of Damon's touch, Damon's teeth, Damon's control.

It was no use. The lingering ache in my neck, the lingering fear in my heart, were a constant reminder of my captivity.

I glanced at the mirror. I was a mess. My eyes were bloodshot, my skin pale, my hair tangled. I looked like I hadn't slept in days. And, in a way, I hadn't. Not really. But I forced myself to smile. I had a girls day out to look forward to. And maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to forget, if only for a little while.

The Mystic Grill was buzzing with the usual Saturday morning crowd. Caroline, Elena, and Bonnie were already there, crowded into a booth near the back. They waved me over, their faces bright with anticipation.

"Jaidlyn! You made it!" Caroline squealed, pulling me into a hug. "We were starting to think you were going to ditch us."

"Wouldn't miss it," I lied, sliding into the booth next to Elena.

The air was thick with the scent of coffee and bacon, the sounds of laughter and chatter filling the space. It was a comfortable, familiar atmosphere, a world away from the cold, opulent darkness of the Salvatore house. We ordered brunch, the conversation flowing easily between us. We talked about school, boys, clothes, and all the other things that normal girls talked about. I tried to focus, to immerse myself in their normalcy, to push Damon to the back of my mind.

But it was no use. Every now and then, I would catch Caroline glancing at me with a worried expression. I knew what she was thinking. She didn't like my relationship with Damon. She thought he was bad news. And she was right.

"So," Bonnie said casually, stirring her coffee. "How are things with Damon?"

I stiffened, my smile faltering. "Things are… fine," I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Fine?" Caroline raised an eyebrow. "Is that all? You've been spending a lot of time with him lately. We barely see you anymore."

"I've just been busy," I said, avoiding her gaze.

"Busy doing what?" Elena pressed. "Damon doesn't exactly strike me as the 'busy' type."

I sighed, knowing I couldn't avoid the questions forever. "We just… hang out," I said vaguely.

"Hang out?" Caroline scoffed. "Jaidlyn, be honest with us. What's really going on with you two?"

I hesitated, trying to find the right words. The compulsion was strong, urging me to defend Damon, to paint him in a positive light. But beneath the surface, a flicker of rebellion sparked. "He's… complicated," I said finally, choosing my words carefully. "He can be… intense."

"Intense?" Elena echoed, exchanging a worried glance with Caroline. "What does that mean?"

"He's just… passionate," I said, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth. "He's very… attentive."

"Attentive how?" Caroline persisted. "Does he… treat you well?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken concerns. I looked at my sister, her eyes filled with genuine worry. I wanted to tell her the truth. I wanted to scream, to confess everything, to beg her to save me. But the compulsion held me back, a vise grip on my tongue. I could feel Damon's presence in my mind, watching, listening, controlling.

"He's… he's fine," I said, the words forced and unnatural. "He's… good to me."

My friends didn't look convinced. They knew me too well. They could see the fear in my eyes, the hesitation in my voice.

"Jaidlyn," Caroline said softly, reaching across the table to take my hand. "If something's wrong, you can tell us. We're here for you. Always."

Her words were like a lifeline, offering a glimmer of hope in the darkness. But I couldn't take it. I couldn't betray Damon. Not yet.

"I'm fine," I repeated, forcing a smile. "Really. Everything's fine."

The conversation shifted, moving on to safer topics. But I could still feel their eyes on me, their worry a constant, nagging presence. I knew I couldn't keep this up forever. Sooner or later, the truth would come out. And when it did, I just hoped I would have the strength to face it. And that I'd be strong enough to protect my sister from the truth.

The day dragged on, a blur of shopping and small talk. I tried to enjoy myself, to laugh and joke with my friends, to pretend that everything was normal. But the weight of Damon's control was a constant burden, dragging me down, poisoning every moment.

As evening approached, I started to feel a growing sense of unease. Damon would be expecting me back at the house soon. And I knew what that meant.

We were standing outside the Mystic Grill, saying our goodbyes, when my phone rang. It was Damon.

I hesitated for a moment, my heart pounding in my chest. I knew I had to answer it, but I dreaded hearing his voice.

"Hey," I said, trying to sound casual.

"Where are you?" His voice was sharp, impatient.

"I'm just finishing up with the girls," I said. "I'll be home soon."

"Hurry up," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I'm waiting." He hung up without another word.

I stared at my phone, my hand trembling. I glanced at my friends, their faces etched with concern. "Everything okay?" Caroline asked.

"Yeah," I said, forcing a smile. "Just… Damon. He wants me to come home."

"You don't have to go if you don't want to," Elena said.

"I know," I said. "But… I should."

I hugged them goodbye, promising to call them later. Then, with a heavy heart, I turned and walked away.

As I walked towards the Salvatore house, the familiar panic started to rise in my chest. I knew what was waiting for me there. The darkness, the control, the violation. But I also knew that I couldn't run forever. Sooner or later, I would have to find a way to break free from Damon's grasp.

The problem was, I had no idea how.

As I reached the front door, I took a deep breath, trying to gather my courage. This wasn't going to be easy. But I had to try. For myself. For Caroline. For everyone I cared about.

With a trembling hand, I pushed open the door and stepped inside. The house was dark and silent, the air thick with a sense of foreboding. Damon was waiting for me in the living room, sitting in a chair by the fireplace. He looked up as I entered, his eyes gleaming with predatory anticipation.

"You're late," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

I swallowed hard, trying to meet his gaze. This was it. The moment of truth.

"I know," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I'm sorry."

He smirked, rising from the chair and walking towards me. "Don't be. I've been waiting all day."

He reached out, his fingers tracing a line down my cheek. I flinched, but I didn't pull away.

"You know what I want, don't you?" he purred, his voice a seductive whisper.

I closed my eyes, bracing myself for what was coming. "Yes," I said, my voice barely audible. "I know."

And as he led me deeper into the darkness, I knew that my life as a vampire hunter was about to change forever.

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